One Little Dance
by AnneBronteRocks
Summary: What if Jane Milner had returned to Hastings one week later? What if Paul and Sam had gotten to have that dance? Maybe it would have gone something like this...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I think it's fairly obvious to everyone reading the stories on this website that none of us own or make money from these characters, who all belong to Anthony Horowitz. _However_, since I re-purposed a large chunk of canon dialogue from "Fifty Ships" at the beginning of this chapter, I feel compelled to humbly state that these characters and this world are not mine, even if they have moved into my head temporarily.

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**Author's Notes:** Obviously, Christopher Foyle is the Atlas on whose shoulders _Foyle's War_ rests. Even so, I was a little surprised by just how many of the stories on this site focus exclusively on him (and usually Sam). There are over 100 stories to date and only _six_ of them give Sergeant Paul Milner a starring role. (The best of these, in my opinion, is "Fool" by BlueCardigan.) My main theory for this discrepancy is that, in canon, Paul eventually gets the whole happily-ever-after package: wife, kid, promotion. And since Foyle never gets a love interest, that fuels a lot of creative speculation and storytelling.

Still, there's so much depth and richness to Paul's character, not to mention the journey he takes to reach his happy ending. So I've been inspired to fill in the gap. I hope you all enjoy.

Finally, a _huge_ shout-out of gratitude and appreciation to GiulliettaC for acting as my Beta. She is amazing (but I think we all knew that already).

Also, thanks to Dancesabove for the really cool picture that is currently gracing this story.

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**_Early September, 1940_**

Paul and Sam ate their dinner with the wireless playing in the background, chatting companionably about all and sundry: the food (Paul was a terribly good sport about Sam having used the remainder of his bacon ration for the _coq au vin_); her current housing situation (imagining Mr. Foyle's face if he knew where she was staying made for a good laugh); and the current investigation (Richard Hunter dead on the beach and the looting of the bombed houses – were they connected?).

Then the wireless began to play a different tune, something faster and jazzier – probably something American. Sam began nodding her head in time with the music.

"I love this one," she exclaimed, jumping out of her chair and turning the volume up. Her plate temporarily abandoned, she began shimmying on the spot, then turned to Paul, still seated at the table and watching her with amusement.

"Will you dance with me?" she asked, then gently ordered, "Dance with me."

"No."

"Don't be such a cold fish!" Sam exclaimed, sashaying around the kitchen with her arms poised around an invisible dance partner, "I've been bombed, I've lost my house, just about all of my possessions. And here I am stuck with you."

"Well thank you," he shot back in mock indignation.

"Just one little dance, that's all."

"All right, I'll have a go," Paul said, rising, "But I'm warning you, I never was much of a dancer, even with the leg." He manoeuvered his way around Sam, heading towards the kitchen sink.

"That's just an excuse," Sam retorted.

"No it's true, really," Paul insisted, refilling his glass from the tap.

"I used to love going to dance halls. When I was in training we used to go up to London. Mayfair, the Grosvenoer…" Paul took a sip of water, then set his glass down and held out a hand to Sam.

In the end, they danced for almost twenty minutes, while the wireless obliged them with a programme of fast-paced music. Sam conceded to herself that Paul wasn't about to oust Fred Astaire from his film career, but frankly, she had had worse partners. Paul didn't once tread on her feet and he managed to shuffle about in time to the music quite well, while she executed some of the fancier footwork.

And it felt so absolutely marvellous to be dancing, the music coursing through her blood like quicksilver, making her feel so _alive_. Because less than 48 hours ago, she had come so close to being…quite the opposite. But the music and its energy helped to push that all away, and Sam's face, looking up at Paul's, reflected her sheer exuberance in rosily flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

When a slow song finally came on, they both let their arms fall to their sides, as though by unspoken agreement. Slightly breathless, Sam sat back down in her chair and attacked her half-filled plate with renewed relish. Paul collected his water glass from the draining board and resumed his seat as well.

"That was marvellous, thank you _so_ much, Paul," Sam beamed.

"I didn't do all that much." Paul's smile was self-effacing.

"Nonsense. I wouldn't be at all ashamed to be seen dancing with you anywhere," Sam told him briskly. "You know, it actually made quite a nice change to dance with someone who's properly taller than I am."

"Oh?"

"Well I'm not a giraffe, of course, but put me in a pair of heels and I'm about eye to eye with most of my dance partners. When I was younger I used to worry it would put fellows off."

"I'm sure it never did that," Paul smiled again, wondering which was more absurd: that Sam's modest height would keep away eager suitors, or the reference to her "youth," given that she was all of twenty two. Although, on reflection, he supposed that the quandaries of a seventeen year old girl might seem distant and misty after the passage of four or five years. Particularly when those years included this bloody war.

They finished their dinner and did the washing up together; Paul rolled up his sleeves to wash the dishes and Sam dried them. Then they repaired to the sitting room and read a little before heading up to their respective rooms to sleep. Paul continued to puzzle over his case notes; Sam found a handsomely bound _Complete Works of Shakespeare_ and began re-reading _Richard III_.

And that became their routine for the week that Sam stayed at Paul's. One of them threw something together for supper (rationing made the meals slightly hodge-podge – one night all they could come up with was powdered eggs and toast) and they shared the washing up. They went over the progress of the investigations (the issue of the looters was wrapped up quite happily for everyone bar the culprits themselves, but Richard Hunter's murderer had unfortunately slipped through Mr. Foyle's fingers, much to his consternation).

And every night, they danced. Sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in the sitting room, wherever they happened to be when the right kind of music came on the wireless. Music like Sam, Paul reflected – happy and alive. She would jump up from where she sat and drag him with her. He usually made a brief show of reluctance, but he admitted to himself by the third night that it was really just for show. Paul had never been a particularly talented dancer, but he had enjoyed dancing before the war…before losing his leg.

And now he discovered that, just as he'd been able to re-learn standing, and walking, and running with his new prosthetic limb, he was re-learning dancing too. Over the course of the week he could sense his movements and balance growing surer and more fluid. He couldn't put words around his gratitude towards Sam for helping him reclaim this part of himself, but when the slower music came back on and they would stop dancing, Paul would flash her a smile as genuinely happy as her own.

"I'm going to miss all this," Sam confided to him as they walked to the station after her last night in his spare room. "Staying with you this past week has been such terrific fun."

"It has, hasn't it?" Paul replied, "I'm really glad that I could help out."

"You've been a brick, Paul," Sam declared, "A ton of bricks. Well," she added as they arrived, "I'll be seeing you shortly." And with a jaunty wave, she headed towards the parked Wolseley to go and collect Mr. Foyle.

It wasn't until after he had arrived home that evening that the loneliness hit Paul. The rooms seemed cavernous, and the silence unnatural without Sam chattering brightly at his elbow. He switched on the lights, surveyed the pantry, then switched them off again. He wasn't hungry. He turned on the wireless, then turned it off again after a minute.

"I wonder when Jane will be coming home?" thought Paul. It was the first time she had crossed his mind in almost a week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The characters and plots of _Foyle's War_ belong to Anthony Horowitz. All the dialogue in this chapter, however, belongs to me (with credit also going to my Beta, GiulliettaC, who is marvellous at what she does).

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**Author's Notes:** Thanks to everyone for all of the positive feedback! So glad you enjoyed it, because I'm just getting started and this is going to end up being a nice little epic (I hope).

To clarify, since some of you were wondering, this is most definitely going to be a Milner/Sam romance. But I'm going to be sticking pretty close to canon as I go along, so it's going to be a little while before friendship evolves into something more. Your patience is requested, though not necessarily expected.

This chapter is kind of a downer, but just hold on: things will start looking up in Chapter 3!

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**_Mid-September-December, 1940_**

When Jane did return, a few days later, Paul was genuinely glad to see her. And she seemed…less distant? Chastened? Had she missed him in Wales while he had been missing her here in Hastings? Or was she just tired from the journey? She didn't pull away when he wrapped her in a welcoming embrace, didn't flinch when he kissed her. When they went to bed that night and he pressed for more, she actually allowed him to be intimate with her for the first time in – how long? There had been an occasion shortly before her trip to Wales, and she had stayed away for three full months. Maybe Jane's going away had been a good idea after all; maybe Kate had talked some sense into her sister.

"Why don't we go out at the weekend?" Paul suggested later that night as they lay together in bed.

"And do what?" Jane queried sleepily.

"Maybe we could go to a dance."

"Oh, Paul," Jane chided, "How can we?" Hearing her, he knew she meant, 'How can you dance now?'

"I can manage perfectly well," he persisted, "Just shuffling around a bit. I promise not to tread on your toes." Paul tried to follow up this small jest by kissing the nape of Jane's neck, but she twisted around as though to see him better in the dark.

"What on earth has gotten into you?" she demanded, incredulous. A moment of silence began and ballooned.

"I've been listening to the wireless a lot during the evenings," Paul finally managed, "It brought back some nice memories. I thought we could give it a go."

"Why don't we go to the pictures instead?" Because clearly an outing that mainly involved sitting still was all that Jane thought he was up for.

"Whatever you like," Paul agreed quietly. He was suddenly glad that the darkness of the room obscured his face, hid his eyes. He realized, in a moment of painful clarity, that their time apart hadn't really changed anything. Jane was never going to see him as anything but a helpless cripple. The most he could honestly expect from her was pity. He would just have to live with it.

But, despite all that, the next few weeks weren't so awful. They both carried on. They had a routine. When Paul left for work and when he got home, Jane would be fussing about in the kitchen. They talked a bit about the war news. She would complain about the shortages and the queues at the shops. They had gone out and seen the "The Thief of Bagdad," which had been quite entertaining, but otherwise they stopped at home in the evenings. Their marital relations were sporadic, and on the few occasions when they were intimate, Paul gradually came to notice that Jane avoided touching any part of him but his arms and shoulders. Still, he counted his blessings.

...

Paul had noticed Jane taking bicarbonate of soda for a few days, but hadn't thought much of it until he and Mr. Foyle began investigating the death of the tanker driver Connie Dewar. Connie turned out to have been four months pregnant, and had been dosing herself with bicarb, apparently for morning sickness. Since Paul had let slip about Jane's recent habit, Mr. Foyle had recommended, matter-of-factly, that Paul speak to Jane.

"Have you been feeling quite well, Jane?" he asked that night as they sat eating their dinner. She looked up with no little surprise.

"Of course, I'm feeling fine, Paul. What on earth made you think otherwise?"

"Well, it's only that you've been taking bicarbonate of soda."

"Oh, that," she waved her hand dismissively, "Just a touch of indigestion."

"Nothing else?" Paul didn't know precisely what he wanted to hear Jane say. Part of him would have loved to hear her tell him that they were starting a family. That would be happy news, something hopeful to look forward to, something to anchor Jane and himself in the normal, everyday round of life.

Another part of his brain, restless and confused, wondered why they were broaching the subject in such a tentative fashion. He could certainly have put Jane in the family way since she had come back from Wales, although if that were the case it was a little soon for her to know for sure. There had been a few rare occasions before Jane had gone away when they had been intimate as well, although if that were the case, she would be well over three months gone, nearly four, and why wouldn't she have told him much earlier? Why couldn't he come straight out and ask Jane directly? More to the point, would Jane really keep this kind of thing from him? Shouldn't they be having this conversation without the prompting of his _senior officer_ of all people, for Heaven's sake?

Jane looked up, puzzled. She squinted at her husband, then raised her eyebrows slightly, as though the penny had dropped.

"I'm perfectly well, Paul," Jane repeated firmly, "It's sweet of you to worry, but there's nothing wrong." She returned her attention to her food.

"You would tell me, wouldn't you?" Frustrated, Paul tried to fumble his way through the disappointment rising up from his stomach and into his chest, taking away his appetite. "If you were ill, you would tell me?"

"Of course I would, Paul," Jane gave a small, brittle smile, "But I'm not."

...

Everything worsened after that conversation, as though some shaky truce had been breached or a bit of temperamental machinery had slipped an essential gear. Jane started avoiding him, exactly as she had in the spring when he first came home. Conversations (on her side at any rate) became another way of keeping him at a distance. She seemed to go off him entirely again, pleading headaches or exhaustion when he made any overtures in that direction. After this happened half a dozen times, he stopped trying.

It was all gradual, yet each moment had a clarity from which Paul couldn't hide, though at first – Lord knew! – he tried. Jane baffled him. Except for the leg, wasn't he perfectly fit? Every other part of his body worked, everything else about him was the same. When he was out and about during the day, he sometimes forgot for brief periods that he was using a prosthesis. But Jane never forgot.

Paul couldn't put his finger on what was wrong with her, or himself, or _them_, didn't know how this whole situation had come about, felt powerless to fix it. When he tried to talk to Jane about their deteriorating relationship, she barricaded herself behind the newspaper, or her chores. They seemed, increasingly, like two strangers who occupied the same space, tiptoeing around each other. Paul wondered how long this could go on.

Work was what kept him sane. Because there was a world outside of Jane's orbit. There was Mr. Foyle, who really valued his work, and there was Sam, who had become such a good friend, and the whole of Hastings beyond. It seemed like a miracle, after the nightmare at Trondheim and afterwards, that he had found himself a place in the world again. He had a job that he did well. He was respected. He could go anywhere in Hastings and the surrounding areas, and people saw him as a whole person. Most of the people who met him couldn't even tell that he had ever lost a leg.

But Jane knew. And after more than six months' opportunity to come to terms with it all, she simply wouldn't.

...

Christmas was quiet, dispirited, and perfunctory in its celebrations. Just before New Year, Jane packed her cases again and decamped back to her sister's in Wales. This time, there was no pretence that it was just for a few weeks. There was no talk of the future.

Left alone in their house, every room and every stick of furniture seemed to mock him and his failed marriage. In all of these months, Paul had never raised his voice to Jane, never lost his temper with her. Deep down, he knew that he had been afraid to offer her such a perfect excuse to leave again, if she were looking for one. Now he felt an anger in him that seemed to simmer continually just below boiling point, always looking for an outlet.

But though his marriage had failed, Paul still knew that his career with the police was something at which he could succeed.

So Sergeant Milner threw himself into work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I re-purpose a lot of dialogue from "The French Drop" in this chapter, so it is only right that I should acknowledge that "Foyle's War" and all that it contains belongs to Anthony Horowitz.

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**Author's Notes:** I know next to nothing about bars or pubs. I am therefore indebted to my excellent Beta, GiulliettaC, for the information that a "snug" is the part of a pub with little tables and chairs.

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**_Early February, 1941_**

Sam was just leaving the station for the night when she saw the light on in Paul's office. There was no good reason for him to be working this late. How often had he been doing that recently? Something was clearly wrong. Anyone could see it. Mr. Foyle, who noticed everything, of course, had actually gone so far as to mention it. Paul had brushed off the casual inquiry, but his assurances rang hollow to Sam's ears.

Sam stood in the doorway and said hello; got Paul to look up from the papers spread out in the harsh glare of his desk lamp. She was determined to get him away from that desk.

"Do you want to buy me a drink?" she asked cheekily, attempting what she hoped was an inviting smile as she put her cap back on. Thankfully, Paul got up and left the station with her without any fuss, and she steered them both towards the nearest local. They bought pints and sat at a vacant table in the snug, sipping their drinks slowly in the light and shadows of a crackling fire.

"Now, Paul," Sam began earnestly, "You're working _far_ too hard. What's wrong, really? Please tell me."

"Jane's left again," he sighed at long last. "For good this time. We tried, but… It just wasn't working. So she's gone back to Wales." And that was it, he reflected bitterly. A few short sentences to sum up the last few miserable months, and the slough of despond in which he currently found himself. Sam looked down at her hands, searching for some appropriate words of comfort.

"It's all the war," was all she could finally find to say, "You try and go on as normal and you just…can't. It's mucking us all up. I don't know what will happen if it goes on much longer." Sam longed to add something less impersonal, but declaring that Jane was a selfish idiot didn't seem quite proper at this moment.

"There's something else," Paul added heavily, "I'm thinking of leaving Hastings."

"Oh not you too!" Sam exclaimed in despair.

"Who else?"

"Nobody." She bit her lip, annoyed with herself at having nearly let slip the secret that Mr. Foyle was working on his own transfer out of Hastings to do war work in Liverpool. Paul still seemed to be rather absorbed with his own affairs and thankfully didn't seem inclined to pursue her blunder. "Why do you want to leave?" Sam added, hoping to distract him further.

"A fresh start, I suppose." Paul's reply was weary.

"Mr. Foyle will be very disappointed in you," Sam chided gently.

"Don't mention it to him, not yet."

"I won't. Wouldn't dream of it." _Oh bloody marvellous_, Sam thought, _two_ huge secrets to keep from the two people with whom she spent most of her time. "Do you know what you two need?" Sam declared, trying to lighten the atmosphere, "Something to take your mind off of things. A jolly good murder. That would do it." That finally brought a small smile to Paul's face.

Sam was of half a mind to drag Paul off to a dance hall. Music and dancing almost always helped her to feel better when she was depressed. She remembered all of the lovely dances she and Paul had shared when she had spent the week with him a few months ago. But the solemnity of the evening, the rawness and severity of Paul's dejection didn't seem quite in concert with that suggestion. So they both simply sat sipping their drinks and chatting quietly. But Sam privately resolved to invite Paul out some evening and keep him from brooding all alone at home or chaining himself to his desk.

...

Luck seemed to be on Sam's side, because she got her wish for a "jolly good murder" the very next day. Actually, it was even better than a murder: a suspicious looking suicide full of odd inconsistencies that kept all three of them busy as proverbial bees for a whole week.

The investigation even took herself and Mr. Foyle out to the vicarage of Sam's Uncle Aubrey. And while the DCS "pursued his enquiries" among the denizens of Hill House, Sam got to conduct some investigations of her own. It was all rather delightfully cloak and dagger, and Sam's own sleuthing actually bore some fruit for Mr. Foyle's case. Her joy in making a contribution, however, took a severe dent when someone sabotaged the Wolseley and she actually _crashed_ the bloody car – to say nothing of herself and Mr. Foyle! Fortunately, the biggest casualty had been the shed into which the Wolseley had smashed.

When she and Mr. Foyle managed to get back to the vicarage, they found Paul waiting for them. He had arrived by train in the course of following another suspect…back to Hill House, as it so happened. While Mr. Foyle set about tidying away the loose ends of the case, Sam waited at the car along with Paul. He seemed happier than he had been last week; more relaxed, more himself. It was good for Paul to be properly busy, but what would he do now that the case was almost done?

"You know you can't really leave," Sam ventured, hoping that she could somehow convince him to stay.

"What do you mean?" Paul asked.

"Hastings. I mean, what would we do without you?"

"I don't know."

"We're a team, aren't we? All for one and one for all or whatever?" Sam could feel the appeal falling flat, but it seemed to put Paul in mind of something.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said suddenly, "I have something for you." Paul opened the car door and pulled out…the onion that Sergeant Rivers had been raffling off!

"Where did you get it?" Sam gaped in shock, her eyes widening.

"I won the raffle," Paul grinned at Sam with satisfaction, savoring the sentence. It felt good for something to be going right in his life for a change; the onion seemed like a tangible symbol of hope. He tossed it playfully from hand to hand.

"Mr. Rivers?" Sam finally managed, thinking what a lovely smile Paul had.

"I thought we'd have half each," he added, holding it out to her. If the onion was a reminder of hope for better things, Paul thought, Sam was the very personification of optimism. For a moment, Sam was uncharacteristically speechless with delight and Paul felt an absurd little surge of pride that he was the cause of this phenomenon. She tossed the onion in the air herself, then she gave it a huge, smacking kiss, her mouth watering in anticipation as she breathed in the onion's scent.

"What a corker. You are a treat," Sam declared. On impulse, she reached up and gave Paul a quick peck on his cheek to thank him for his generosity. Paul blinked in momentary surprise; the whole world seemed to grow brighter with Sam's small gesture of affection. And _that_, he realized suddenly, was what had been missing from his interactions with Jane. In all the time since he had come home from Norway, there hadn't been an ounce of affection between them, whatever else there might or might not have been. His vaguely formed plans for leaving Hastings, which had been dwindling over the course of the week, dissolved completely.

...

After taking Mr. Foyle home, Sam collected Paul for a "council of war" over pints.

"I was thinking about what to do with that onion the whole drive back to Hastings," Sam announced.

"And what will you do with your half?" Paul asked, smiling. Since their talk the week before, he felt lighter inside, as though he had shed some particularly heavy burden. Or perhaps a better word would be looser, as though he'd allowed something to unclench and relax.

"Well, I've come up with something rather brilliant, even if I do say so," Sam began, and laid out her plan for Paul's approval. She had determined that if a half an onion would suffice to make a meal for one person, it could certainly be stretched to feed two people. Instead of using their halves separately for meals by themselves, they would pool their ration books, cook and share two meals. "And half the onion will be in each night's supper," Sam concluded, "And we each pick one of the dishes we want to make."

Paul liked the idea. They agreed to cook both meals in his kitchen; it would be much simpler than for Sam to try negotiating the use of her landlady's. Paul decided that he wanted his half of the onion to go towards a shepherd's pie, reasoning that despite rationing it shouldn't be too Herculean an effort to procure minced meat of some kind. Sam initially elected to make another _coq-au-vin_, although her plans changed dramatically when she actually went to the butcher's a few days later.

She flew into Paul's office clutching a paper wrapped parcel in a string bag with a look of beatific elation on her face.

"Oh, Paul, you'll _never_ guess!" she exclaimed.

"I'm sure I won't," he replied, mystified. Sam looked as though she'd just heard that the war had ended, although that _certainly_ couldn't be the case.

"Just, _just_ when it was my turn in the queue, they brought out a piece of _liver_. Forget _coq-au-vin_, I'm going to make us liver and onions with mashed potatoes!" Paul grinned at Sam's gush of enthusiasm. Her effervescence always seemed to brighten the atmosphere around her and he was grateful to be the recipient of some of it. And he had to agree; her managing to procure some liver was a stroke of luck equal to if not exceeding his in winning the onion in the first place.

After work, they both went back to Paul's house and set about cooking dinner. They tossed a coin to determine who would have the dubious privilege of chopping the first half of the onion. The task fell to Sam, while Paul set about preparing the potatoes. She tried lighting a candle to counteract the onion's fumes, but it did little good. Her eyes stung and streamed, but, Paul noted, a smile remained fixed on her face throughout.

They waited until the potatoes were cooked before beginning the somewhat solemn task of frying the onions. Sam stopped talking and turned off the wireless to aid her concentration, almost afraid to take her eyes off of the skillet, lest anything start to burn. The onions began to pop and sing as they sizzled merrily away, filling the kitchen with their tantalizing fragrance.

When the onions began to brown satisfactorily, Sam directed Paul to mash the potatoes, and added the precious liver to the frying onions. She only gave the meat a few minutes on each side, remembering all too clearly her mother's comments over the years on the tendency of liver to get overcooked. Sam made up two plates, dividing the food with scrupulous care. Then she turned the wireless back on and they both sat down at the table.

"Just like old times," Sam said, thinking back to that pleasant week that she had spent in Paul's spare room. Maybe she could get him to dance a little after they had eaten. Sam was almost bouncing in anticipation of the food on her plate. They both took their first bite…and it was perfection. The liver was dense and rich in flavor, the onions sweet and tangy.

"Let's have a toast," Paul suggested, raising his glass of water, "To Sergeant Rivers and his onion."

"And to the shepherd's pie still to come!" Sam added gaily, clinking glasses.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **This chapter is particularly canon-heavy (I promise, I have my own ideas and you'll start seeing some of them in the very next chapter), so it behooves me to state that "Foyle's War" belongs to Anthony Horowitz (lucky devil) and not me.

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**Author's Notes: **No need to reinvent the wheel to deal with Andrew's relationship with Sam when canon wraps things up so neatly...

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_**Late February, 1940**_

Andrew was in one of his moods – again. They had been cropping up fairly often of late, Sam noticed, making him jaundiced, irritable, and disinterested in much of anything, including herself. She'd gone to the trouble of making herself particularly smart for their evening out, but she couldn't even get him onto the dance floor, although there was lively music playing. She could barely even get him to talk at all; he simply sat drinking and staring across the room at his friend, Greville Woods, and Greville's fiancée Anne Bolton. They were the very picture of love's young dream. Andrew seemed to find their displays of affection slightly nauseating.

"Greville's talking about getting married when the war's over," Andrew informed Sam.

"What's so wrong with that?" she shrugged.

"Making plans? Nothing I suppose." After seeing each other for close to four months, Sam could read Andrew's thoughts well enough even though he wasn't sharing them. There was nothing wrong with making plans for the future except for the very real possibility that they were merely an exercise in futility, waiting to be obliterated by enemy fire. She knew the Sword of Damocles hanging over Andrew's head, understood to the best of her limited ability the awfulness of the pressure and responsibility he must feel, flying ops, trying to keep the Germans and their bombs at bay. But her understanding and her sympathy seldom seemed to go very far towards making Andrew feel any better. She'd had much better luck helping Paul Milner with his problems which were certainly quite serious, albeit not actually life-threatening. Sam wagered that if she had come out with Paul tonight instead of Andrew, she would have at least had him smiling by now, perhaps dancing as well.

"I hate it when you're in this sort of mood, Andrew," Sam muttered, then regretted her petulance. She hoped she didn't sound like a nag. That would just add to his troubles, whereas, since they were stepping out, wasn't she supposed to help ease them? But he seemed to take her rebuke in stride.

"You're right," he admitted, "I'm bloody awful company. I'm pushing off." She'd given him a quick kiss on the cheek before he left for home. Apparently his CO also thought that Andrew needed to get out of his current mood; he'd been given a weekend pass and was headed for his father's house rather than back to barracks.

...

Whether Andrew's time at home had done him any good, Sam couldn't have said, since the next thing that she knew, Greville had crashed and been badly burned. Andrew was in a right state, not only about Greville himself, but the fact that Greville had been flying Andrew's Spitfire. Something to do with the cockpit slide getting stuck; if it had been working properly, Greville would have been able to get himself out and clear of the burning wreckage with superficial injuries. Instead, Greville was being treated at Digby Manor, a huge old estate requisitioned by the RAF to care for burned pilots. It was still unclear whether or not his sight had been spared.

Sam had driven Paul and Mr. Foyle to Digby Manor several times within the past week – though it was nothing to do with Greville's accident. Someone had been wreaking havoc with the supplies in an escalating series of petty sabotages that had culminated in a piece of masonry falling off the roof and nearly killing a visiting RAF official. So there were all of the doctors and staff to interview.

Then a day or two later, the mechanic whom everyone blamed for the faulty slide – a nasty piece of work named Drake – was found dead. It seemed that half of Hastings had one reason or another for murdering the man. The list of witnesses and suspects to be interviewed never seemed to end.

...

When Sam arrived home the next evening, Andrew was waiting for her in the street. He looked as though he had been waiting for hours and was chilled to the bone. Not entirely sure as to the best course of action, Sam let him in, sat him in front of the heater, and made him a hot cup of tea.

"I had to see you," Andrew blurted out. Sam didn't know quite what to make of this statement; Andrew blew so hot and cold, depending on his mood.

"My landlady comes in and finds us we're both for the high jump." Sam tried vainly to put a humorous spin on things; Andrew seemed grim as death. "I thought you were on duty," she ventured cautiously.

"Sam, I've gone AWOL."

"What?" she spluttered in shock, "Why?"

"I can't go back," Andrew was adamant, "I don't care what happens to me."

"But you must," Sam insisted, trying to stifle her panic. When she'd brought Andrew in, she hadn't bargained on hiding a fugitive. "They'll come looking for you. Andrew, what is it?"

"I'm so tired," the words started spilling out, as though some dyke or dam had been breached, taking Andrew's recent taciturn reserve with it, "For weeks now. I don't sleep. I can't eat. I feel sick. Sometimes, I can't stand it because you're not with me. But at other times, I don't care if I ever see you again. I know that's a horrible thing to say. I don't want it to be true. But it's as if you don't exist for me. As if we never met."

"You're tired, that's all." Sam floundered for something to account for Andrew's current state; she was starting to feel distinctly out of her depth.

"I'm not just tired, Sam. When I saw Greville…and the others in that place."

"You don't need to think about them. Because it's not going to happen to you," Sam insisted. She admitted to herself, however, that seeing the patients at the Manor _had_ put her in mind of Andrew and some of the grim fates that might await him. She could tell that Mr. Foyle had been affected in a similar fashion as well.

"It _will_ happen to me," Andrew plunged on, "I know. He was in my plane, Sam. He flew my op. It should have been me." Sam had heard of people suffering from nervous collapse and sometimes wondered what the term had meant, practically speaking. Now she began to suspect that Andrew was going through one before her very eyes. She wanted to be supportive and to say the right things, but it became increasingly clear that there was nothing in her arsenal of ready sympathy that could cope adequately with his frame of mind.

"You can't stay here," Sam reiterated, as gently as she could, "You've got to go back."

"I can't," Andrew was doggedly determined on that point.

"They'll find you," Sam repeated, suddenly imagining MPs breaking down her door and dragging Andrew away. She'd probably be arrested too. Andrew began to cry. "You can't run away from them forever."

"Don't make me go back," he choked out over and over again. Bereft of words, Sam knelt on the hearthrug and wrapped her arms around Andrew's heaving shoulders, holding him tightly, feeling the shudders of his wracking sobs, wondering helplessly how to make things right.

...

On the face of it, Anne Bolton was one of the easier witnesses Paul had interviewed. She was forthcoming about her feelings towards the murder victim, Drake. She admitted to being in the vicinity on the night in question. It was clear to Paul that Anne had had nothing to do with the murder itself. Then she started talking about her fiancé, Greville.

"Sam told me Greville had been hurt. She told me I should visit him. But it was only when I was there that I realized I didn't want to. Does that sound very cruel to you, Sergeant Milner? I can't see him. I don't want to see him. I want the Greville Woods I was in love with. The Greville I was going to marry. I tried to make myself visit him. That's why I was there that night. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't face him."

Paul bit his tongue in his effort to keep the sudden swell of his emotions in check. Anne wasn't Jane – he knew that – although her dark hair put him in mind of Jane. But Anne's words seemed like Jane's thoughts, finally articulated. Jane's actions had all spoken to these exact sentiments. Hearing Anne's excuses gave Paul the sensation that he had been hit squarely in the chest.

And yet he understood it more coming from Anne, he could excuse it more readily than he had with Jane. Anne and Greville were both so much younger than himself and Jane. Greville's burns were more horrific than his own injuries had been. And since they didn't yet know if Greville's sight had gone, his wounds were potentially more severe. Paul knew from Sam that Anne and Greville were in love, were engaged, but Paul and Jane had been _married_, they had made _vows_ to God and each other. Wasn't the daily life of marriage supposed to take the hearts and flowers stuff of young love and turn it into something stronger?

Walking through the burn wards at Digby Manor, Paul had felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the nature of his own injuries, which had healed so well. For hands that he could use with dexterity and eyes that could see perfectly. He had spent a few idle moments trying to imagine Jane's reaction if he _had_ come home from Norway disfigured by burns to his face and hands. Paul concluded ruefully that she'd probably have put rat poison in his beer and tried to pass it off as suicide. Somewhat to his surprise, Paul had found his own hypothesized murder rather entertaining, because he knew that Jane would never have gotten away with it. Mr. Foyle would have found her out in no time and come down on her like the wrath of God. He found it all oddly satisfying to envisage.

Paul recalled himself to the interview, thanked Anne gravely, and began getting up to leave.

"You think I'm disgusting," Anne hissed, and he could hear the self-loathing in her voice, already laced with deep pain and confusion. Her youth and fragility struck him again. She really was terribly young, and having to grow up so suddenly and in the worst possible way.

"No," he replied gently, discovering that this was actually true; he didn't find her disgusting. "But I will speak out of turn, if you don't mind," he went on, wondering how much she might mind his small interference. "This is fake," he said briefly, patting his prosthetic through his trouser leg. "It's aluminium. I lost most of my leg at Trondheim last year. I was a mess when they carried me home. Maybe not as bad as your fiancé, but there was massive scarring everywhere."

"I'm sorry," Anne murmured, contrite and embarrassed.

"You shouldn't be," Paul felt a moment's irritation that he managed to conceal. He wasn't telling her this to fish for pity or to wrong-foot her. "I'm the man I was before. I haven't changed," he continued steadily, wishing for a moment that this girl was really Jane after all. Somehow, in all their time together, Paul felt that he had never been able to express himself as clearly and coherently to his wife as to this perfect stranger. Perhaps he had never felt it so completely himself.

And perhaps what Jane could or couldn't be made to understand was simply her own problem. Anne's next words showed that she, unlike Jane, was actually listening.

"And what are you saying? That Greville is still the same?"

"He won't be if you leave him," Paul pronounced quietly, then left, hoping for Greville's sake that Anne was made of sterner stuff than Jane.

...

Sam had known that it would be impossible to keep Andrew hidden for very long. As soon as Andrew's CO had informed Mr. Foyle that his son had gone AWOL, the DCS had recognized her own poorly concealed nervousness and guilt and that was that.

But in the end, everything had sorted itself out surprisingly well. Andrew's break down the previous day seemed to have really done him some good. When his father had collected him from Sam's flat, he was calm and rational once again; willing to listen to reason and to take his father's advice. Moreover, Andrew's CO was an understanding sort, and once Andrew had re-appeared within the time limit that had been set, the issue of his going AWOL was dropped.

In fact, Andrew's entire assignment had been changed. Instead of flying with the bomber squad, he was being posted back to Debden to help train the new RAF recruits. This would have been completely tickety-boo, thought Sam, except for the fact that Scotland was so far from Hastings. She had driven Mr. Foyle to the airstrip to see Andrew off and said her own goodbyes as well. She and Andrew had promised each other to write; he seemed to think that he might be able to get leave sometimes and then they could see each other on rare weekends. Sam found the whole exchange discouraging and depressing, trying to fight back tears as Andrew put on a brave face. An odd reversal of their previous encounter.

He kissed her before climbing into his plane and flying away. Sam stood with Mr. Foyle, watching the plane grow smaller in the distance and disappear. She hoped Andrew would be all right, and that he would write her some good, long letters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The characters of _Foyle's War_ and the plot of "War of Nerves" belong to Anthony Horowitz. Every scrap of dialogue in this chapter? Exclusively mine. (Prodded and polished, as always, by GiulliettaC, Beta extraordinaire.)

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**Author's Notes:** "War of Nerves" is one of my favorite Paul Milner episodes. He gets to get out of the office and go undercover. He wears clothes that accentuate just how _thin_ Anthony Howell is (not to mention that he rolls up his sleeves). He gets _shot_. And then at the end of the episode, he gets to tussle with the crook who took a pot-shot at him and totally comes out the victor. I don't include that last bit in this chapter, but it's a joy to watch.

A quick note about Charlie Chaplin and his film, "The Great Dictator," courtesy of Wikipedia. Chaplin made his name as a comic actor during the era of silent films and famously refused to make the switch to sound when the technology became available in the late '20s. "The Great Dictator" was Chaplin's first talking picture. He was inspired to make the film after viewing Leni Riefenstahl's propaganda film of Hitler and Nazism, "Triumph of the Will," which Chaplin watched numerous times, all the better to accurately satirize Hitler and the Nazis in his own film. Filming began in 1939, literally at the same time as the outbreak of WWII, and was released in the US in 1940, in the UK in 1941. It was hugely popular on both sides of the Atlantic. Chaplin later said, however, that if he had known the true extent of the Nazis' crimes against humanity, he wouldn't have made the film.

* * *

_**June, 1941**_

"Paul!"

At the sound of his name, Sergeant Milner looked up from the paperwork that littered his desk and saw Sam in the doorway, a look of abject horror on her face.

"Hello, Sam," he said, smiling. It always made him smile to see Sam, and he hadn't seen her quite so frequently lately.

"Your arm!" she exclaimed, rushing from the doorway to his desk. "What on earth happened?"

"Oh, well," Paul glanced down at his bandaged left arm in its sling, "Part of the undercover job I was on. The suspect took a shot at me. He nearly missed." The smile that accompanied this statement was meant to be reassuring and even a bit satirical, but Sam didn't respond to his quip and continued to look stricken. "Really, Sam," he added, reaching out and capturing one of her hands with his good one, giving it a squeeze, "The doctor is making a ridiculous amount of fuss. It's just a flesh wound, very shallow. I got a few stitches, my arm will be a bit stiff for a week or two, and I'll be right as rain."

"I can't _bear_ to think of your being hurt, Paul," Sam burst out, with a vehemence of which she seemed unaware. The only coherent thought she could form through her ebbing panic, was the idea that Paul had survived the slaughter of the battlefield, and it was grossly unfair that he should now get _shot_ while pursuing petty criminals in Hastings. "And your left arm of all places!" Though, truth be told, she couldn't think of any other particular body part in which getting shot would be preferable. To Sam's surprise, after a moment, Paul burst out laughing.

"To match my leg, you mean?" he chuckled, "I do seem to favor that side, don't I? Pity that bloke _didn't_ aim for my leg – wouldn't he have been surprised when I kept after him?" Paul was relieved to see that now Sam was beginning to look more cheerful.

"Does it hurt?" Sam surveyed the snowy gauze encasing Paul's arm with undisguised concern.

"Not much. It hurt like blazes when it happened, though." Paul remembered (was it really only the evening before?) the shock of the bullet knocking him to the ground, where he had lain writhing in pain, his shirtsleeve wet and crimson with blood. To top everything off, the suspect had managed to escape. "I'm fine, Sam," he repeated emphatically, recalling himself to the present and the young woman standing in front of him.

"Shall I get you some tea?" Sam offered with a full return of her usual sunny disposition; Paul didn't appear to require anything else.

"Yes, thanks. That would be lovely." Paul watched Sam bustle out the door, then returned to wrestling with his notes on the fictitious Ian Kimble.

...

By the next day, when Sam drove him and Mr. Foyle back to the Talbot Brother's' shipyard, Paul had dispensed with the sling as a nuisance and altogether too conspicuous. As often happened, Mr. Foyle set off in search of the Talbot brothers by himself while Paul hung about with Sam and the Wolseley.

"Is your arm better today?" Sam asked as they surveyed the shipyard workers coming and going.

"Yes, it's doing very well. I'm sorry I gave you such a fright yesterday."

"I was out most of the morning at Jack Archer's trial so I hadn't heard anything about the shooting," Sam explained earnestly, "I just saw that you were in your office and with all the undercover work you'd been doing this last month and more I hardly ever see you, so I just popped my head round the door and there you were with your arm in a bally sling!" Sam felt her face flushing, "And then I went and made a fool of myself."

"You didn't make a fool of yourself, Sam."

"I don't remember the last time I overreacted so. Of course I should have seen that you were sitting there doing perfectly well apart from the sling. But it was such a shock. I'm sorry; I don't know what you must think of me."

"Don't be sorry," Paul assured her, "It's nice to know that people care about you."

"Of course I care for you, Paul!" Sam exclaimed, anxious that he shouldn't be in the dark about something so patently obvious, "I care tremendously. You're one of my best friends."

Paul smiled shyly. It was odd, he thought to himself, but Sam was probably his best friend as well. He had had quite a number of friends over the years. Friends from school with whom he'd lost touch. Friends who had joined up when he had done and either died or were still fighting overseas. But none who were actually in his life apart from this blithe young woman who always seemed to be overflowing with energy and compassion. "I'm glad to have you for my friend too, Sam," he said.

They both fell quiet for a moment, but before either could speak again, the air raid siren began its sickeningly familiar wail. The trickle of meandering workers changed instantly to floods of people pouring out of doors and hurrying towards shelters. Sam and Paul quickly got out of the car and joined them, pausing while Paul ran back to the car to fetch their gas masks.

They followed the crowd, wending their way down into shelters, directed by air raid wardens, and took their seats side by side, shoulders touching, squashed amongst the over-all-clad shipyard workers. The sound of the air raid siren rose and fell in the uneasy silence, broken here and there by murmured scraps of conversation or prayer. The drone of German aeroplanes became audible, although it was hard to tell for certain their ultimate destination – until a whistling rent the air, followed by a palpable thud and the tremors of a nearby explosion. Sam suddenly bent forward and wrapped her arms around her knees, burying her head in her lap. After a moment, she felt an arm and hand come to rest lightly across her back and shoulder.

"All right, Sam?" Paul's voice spoke quietly in her ear.

"Been better," she quavered slightly.

"Care to talk about it?"

"Would it be…seditious…if I said I was frightened?" Memories of the _odious _Detective Inspector Collier from Scotland Yard and his trumped-up charges of sedition against Mr. Foyle flitted through Sam's mind. Collier had alleged that Mr. Foyle had panicked in a London air raid shelter and started spouting all sorts of nonsense about defeat and surrender.

"Of _course_ not," Paul's voice was warm and gentle, "There's nothing wrong with being afraid."

"It's only…" Sam opened her eyes and turned her head slightly. Paul was leaning forward too, his face quite close to hers. "I've been in lots of raids already," Sam continued in a low whisper, so as not to be overheard, "And it's always horrible. You never know _where_ Jerry will decide to let one drop. But…this is just the sort of place the Germans would _target_," Sam hissed, "We're in a _ship yard_ for Heaven's sake. I've never felt like such a sitting duck in my life."

"Which is precisely why the shelters here are bound to be particularly reliable," came Paul's immediate reply.

"Do you really think so?"

"Of course." Paul put as much confidence as he could into the statement. Privately, he didn't feel quite as certain as he hoped he had managed to sound. But to voice any doubts he might entertain on their chances if the shelter took a direct hit wouldn't help Sam at all. He didn't think that any of the other people crowding the shelter would take such remarks very kindly either, if they were overheard.

"I was in a raid with Mr. Foyle my very first week as his driver," Sam continued, "Shortly before you came to work with him. He was interviewing a suspect at a pub when the sirens went off. I ran in to ask if it was a false alarm, and then the _whistling_ started, and Mr. Foyle yelled, 'Get down,' and everything _exploded_. It was a mercy we weren't all killed. There was a girl killed – she was just outside the pub – but all the windows blew in and everything smashed, and we were covered in bits of rubble. And then of course, when poor Jenny…" her rambling ended abruptly at the mention of the girl who had died when Sam was bombed out of her home last year, and she squeezed her eyes tight shut. Paul tightened the grip of his right arm around Sam's shoulders in wordless sympathy. From above their heads came another high pitched whistle and an accompanying crash, though – oddly – no explosion.

"Sometimes I dream about…the night that Jenny died," Sam was speaking now through clenched teeth, "And when I do, I always hear the whistling – and her screaming. And I try to get to her, to help her, but I can't. I'm sorry," she added, using the heel of her hand to rub out a tear that persisted in leaking through her screwed up eyelids, "You're sure I haven't said anything seditious?"

"Quite sure, Sam." She could _hear_ the grin that had accompanied Paul's words, though her eyes were still closed. Sam blinked her eyes open, dashing impatiently at the few tears that coursed down her face when she did. She straightened and sat up slowly, and Paul moved to sit back with her, though his arm remained draped across her shoulders.

"I feel a bit like I'm letting the side down," Sam muttered in frustration. What must Paul think of her, going to pieces like this? – especially after her earlier upset over his arm. "How do you cope so well, Paul?" she asked suddenly. "Don't the raids ever remind you of…Norway and all that?"

"The raids aren't really my problem." Sitting as close as they were, Sam could feel him tense just slightly as he spoke.

"They don't give you nightmares?"

"Not exactly… When I dream, it's usually to do with…my leg."

"Of course," Sam was beginning to regret her line of questioning; what kind of repayment was she showing for all of Paul's kindness, dredging up the worst moments of his life when he was doing _his_ best to calm her down and make her feel safe? "That must have been… beyond awful."

"It was…" Even after all this time, his memories of the actual battle, of the explosion that would take his leg, were still fragmented and hard to force into focus. "But, it's odd, you see," he went on, "In my dreams, the left leg is still there… But my right leg is gone." As he spoke, Paul removed his arm from around Sam's shoulders and rubbed his hand absently along his right thigh. "Of course," he added with some attempt at lightening the mood, "When I wake up, it's easy enough to reassure myself that everything is still as it should be."

"I'm sorry," Sam muttered, feeling her face go suddenly hot, "I'm being horrible. I should never have brought it up."

"It's alright, Sam, really. They're just dreams; not real. I don't mind telling you." In the ensuing silence, Paul chided himself for his somewhat glib answer to Sam's question. He had been honest, but only up to a point. If they were really exchanging confidences, maybe he should allow himself a bit more candour. After a small internal struggle, Paul forced himself to add, "But it's hard to remember sometimes, isn't it? That dreams aren't real? Because they _feel_ so real, even once you've woken up." The last time he remembered dreaming about his legs, it had taken over half an hour for him to calm down, to stop his heart racing and get his breathing under control, running his hand up and down his right leg to reassure himself that it hadn't disappeared.

"Yes," Sam's response was nearly inaudible.

"But…we just… carry on," Paul added, his voice regaining its usual calm. He couldn't give any special reason or explanation for how he managed to keep himself on an even keel, other than the job in front of him and the purpose it gave his life. He suspected that Sam felt the same way about her job; that it gave her a direction and a sense of contributing towards the greater good. As he spoke, Paul reached for Sam's hand once more, held it tight. "And it always helps to have a friend you can talk to."

...

When the all clear finally sounded, the built-up tension and anxiety in the shelter drained away. The babble of voices in conversation climbed to a steady hum as everyone heaved themselves to their feet. Sam and Paul began straggling to the surface along with everyone else.

"I think," Sam said as they climbed the stairs, "That we could do with a jolly good laugh after all that."

"What did you have in mind?" They emerged, blinking, into the open air and sunshine.

"'The Great Dictator' is playing at the pictures. Why don't we go tonight and find out what Chaplin's voice actually sounds like?" The face she turned towards Paul as she spoke projected a touch of hesitancy, as though she weren't quite sure what his reaction to her invitation would be. Sam felt a moment's anxiety that Paul might take the invitation the wrong way – either as a romantic gesture or one based on pity, when it was neither.

She needn't have worried. After a moment's deliberation, Paul grinned with pleased anticipation. "I think it sounds like just the thing." Sam couldn't have known it beforehand, but he had adored Chaplin's films ever since he was a boy.

"Good. That's settled then." Sam's veneer of nerves dissolved into satisfaction over a job well done. And together, they wandered off together in search of Mr. Foyle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **Maybe someday I will create wonderful characters of my own. At the moment, I am simply playing with the ones dreamed up by Anthony Horowitz. And making absolutely no money in the process. **  
**

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**Author's Notes: **Things I learned from my amazing Beta, GiulliettaC, in the course of writing this chapter: the phrase "all on her lonesome" is an Americanism. GiulliettaC's suggested substitution, "all on her own-ee-o" is taken from a music hall song about a young Italian lady pining for her faithless beau, Antonio (who has left her all on her "own-ee-o" - it rhymes, get it?) :O). You learn something new every day. Especially when GiulliettaC is your Beta.

This is where I stop playing quite so nicely with canon and things really start happening...

* * *

**_Late March, 1942_**

Paul Milner mounted the stairs gingerly and entered Will Grayson's bedroom. There was pitifully little left of it. Whatever the fire hadn't consumed to nothingness was a charred, black skeleton of itself. Water still dripped from the ceiling; the air was redolent of the sharp, acrid reek of smoke. Paul surveyed the room carefully, noting a set of keys lying among the rubble on Will's bedside cabinet.

He stared out the car window on the drive back to the Hastings station without taking in the scenery. He thought of the previous evening – _Christ, was it really such a short time ago?_ – sitting with Will at the Wheatsheaf, sharing a few pints and catching up on everything they had been through since Trondheim. An invisible hand seemed to be twisting his insides. How was this possible? Will had saved Paul's life in Norway, carried him to safety after that explosion. Now Will was dead from his bedclothes catching fire and his bedroom door being locked, preventing his escape. Something about the whole sorry mess didn't seem quite right – of that Paul felt certain.

When he arrived at the station, Paul explained the circumstances of Will's death to Mr. Foyle and asked to spend his own time, over the weekend, making inquiries.

"I don't understand why he didn't get out," Paul finished with the part that was puzzling him the most, "He'd locked himself in, but he could have opened the door, there was a key right beside the bed."

"And why was it locked in the first place?" Mr. Foyle had a sometimes uncanny knack for seeing the really fundamental question that required answering. Better still, he had a generous respect for the instincts and intuitions of people other than himself. "All right," he told Paul, "Look into it."

...

First he'd visited Will's father, still confined to a hospital bed. Paul could see and hear his own shock and disbelief over Will's death mirrored in the older man. Will's father had waited up for his son that night and seen him come in, very drunk. Paul confirmed that they had both been together at the Wheatsheaf.

"He could barely stand up," Will's father concluded, then added, accusingly, "What were you drinking?"

"Just bitter." Paul felt a stab of guilt. If they hadn't been out drinking in the first place, would this still have happened? Quite possibly; Will's father said that his son had been out drinking every night. The war was eating at him from the inside out.

"Well he must have had plenty of it," Mr. Grayson declared. Paul thought back to the night in question, tallied the drinks they'd both consumed. The beer was on the weak side, as it was everywhere. When Paul had left Will to go home, he'd felt pleasantly mellow, as much from Will's company as from the beer. He himself had certainly been far from drunk. There was work to look forward to the next day and the last thing he would have wanted to do was show up at the station with a hangover. Will might have had a bit more to drink than Paul, but certainly not enough to incapacitate him…

Paul changed tack and asked about Will locking his bedroom door. Mr. Grayson found this circumstance equally mystifying; his son had never done that before. Then they spoke of the fire itself. Will's father had gone to bed after his son came home, then woke an hour later, around midnight.

"I knew something was wrong straight away."

"There was smoke?" Paul prompted gently.

"I smelled it before I saw it – the whole top floor was alight. When I got up the stairs I tried to open his door."

"Wasn't he awake?"

"Yeah, he heard me. I banged on the door and he shouted to me, 'I can't see!' That's all he said." Paul wondered what that meant. Will couldn't see because of the smoke? Shouldn't he have been able to reach for his keys even so? "Then the ceiling in the corridor came down and that's all I remember," Mr. Grayson concluded mournfully, "They dragged me out but they couldn't get Will. Couldn't get to him."

...

Paul's next stop was the Wheatsheaf, where he spoke to the landlord, Alan Carter. Carter claimed that Will had put back a few more pints and left the premises sober enough.

"He was after whisky," Paul said, remembering that Will had suggested they switch to something harder before he had decided to pack it in and go home.

"There is no whisky," Carter stated flatly, "We ran out." As had every other drinking establishment. Carter suggested that Will might have gotten something at one of the other pubs in the area. He hadn't noticed when Will left. Paul remembered that there had been a barmaid. Carter gave him her name and particulars. Susan Davies. Paul went to her home, hoping to speak with her, but she wasn't there.

...

Sam sat at the back of the crowded lecture room as Mr. Foyle addressed the American servicemen about what they could expect now that they were stationed in England; all the little things that were different, all of the really important things that were the same. The young Americans seemed to enjoy the lecture. They listened more or less respectfully and asked questions. Sam eyed them curiously. In different uniforms, some of them might have passed for Englishmen. Others wouldn't, although in most cases, Sam couldn't quite put her finger on why. None of them looked like Clark Gable, of course, but a number of them were good looking enough to pass for film stars.

When Captain Kieffer thanked Mr. Foyle for his time and dismissed the assembled crowd, everyone wandered into the mess for supper, including herself and the DCS. The spread was eye-popping; Sam hadn't seen so much food on one table since she, Paul, and Mr. Foyle had spent a few days at the Land Army Hostel the previous spring. On that occasion, there had been a sturdy familiarity to the food. Now, much of what she saw was unfamiliar and even a trifle exotic. Sam wanted to try everything. However, strangely, when confronted by all this excess, she found herself frozen in hesitation.

"Hey, Sugar." A figure loomed in Sam's peripheral vision and she glanced around to see one of the American servicemen standing a few feet away from her, hands in his pockets and a smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, are you talking to me?"

"Well, I don't see anyone else around," the young man drawled. No other women, certainly.

"Well, my name's not 'Sugar,'" Sam said with as much dignity as she could muster.

"Well, what is it then?" The young man was clearly nothing if not persistent.

"Stewart. Sam Stewart."

"Sam. As in 'Samantha?'"

"Yes." Sam allowed some impatience to colour her voice. Honestly, if she had a pound for everyone who felt it necessary to comment on how she chose to shorten her name…

"You got a boyfriend?"

"Actually, I do." Impatience veered into outright annoyance with a touch of frost.

"Well, forgive me. I was just trying to be friendly." Despite his forwardness, he did seem sincere. Sam allowed herself to unbend slightly and they chatted for a few minutes. His name was Private Joe Farnetti, and he told her that the Americans were going to be hosting a dance to get to know all the locals. If she came, he could show her the jitterbug, a dance Sam had never heard of before.

The conversation didn't last long; Mr. Foyle decided to leave shortly after that. Sam grabbed a doughnut as she left in his wake, throwing regretful glances at the food she had barely been able to taste.

...

_You got a boyfriend?_ The question echoed in Sam's brain as she drove Mr. Foyle home, then walked to her own. She had actually been tempted to answer Private Farnetti's question with the counter-question, "Which one are you referring to?" By her own reckoning, she had two, both equally impossible.

There was Andrew Foyle, her acknowledged beau. They hadn't seen each other in person since he had left for Scotland over a year ago. Something had always come up preventing him from getting enough leave to make it down to Hastings. They had been corresponding, of course. But the letters had become rather perfunctory things as time passed. He didn't enjoy being an instructor as much as he had thought he would. She wrote about the cases his father investigated, though they were seldom the stuff of cheap thrillers. They seemed to have run out of things to say to each other. Andrew might be a budding poet, but he was less than stellar at writing letters.

When he could be bothered to write. Sam hadn't heard from him in weeks; neither had his father. If she hadn't known that Andrew was stationed in Scotland, the long silence would have had Sam sick with worry. As things were, she was becoming fed up. If he had lost interest in their relationship, she wished he would come out and say so. As things were, he was like a bloody albatross hanging around her neck. Useful to put young men in their place if they tried to get fresh, but keeping her from doing anything else.

And then there was her of-course-not-really-it-was-just-impossible boyfriend… Paul Milner. Sam couldn't quite work out when her feelings towards Paul had changed from friendship to something much stronger – it had all been so gradual. If she had been forced to delineate a timeline, Sam supposed that her feelings had altered some time during the summer, although nothing untoward had happened between them during those months.

They'd gone to the pictures towards the end of June to see "The Great Dictator." They had just sat through an air raid together, and Sam thought that she and Paul had needed something fun to take their minds off of the war. The film had absolutely hit the spot. They had both laughed so hard, at various points, that they had shed tears of pure mirth, and Sam herself had actually developed a subsequent case of hiccups.

The whole evening had been such a palpable boost to both their spirits that Sam made a point of inviting Paul out every couple of weeks. It was much more fun going to the pictures with a friend than all on her own-ee-o. And although Paul seemed to have long ago found his feet again after Jane's desertion, the memory of his black depression in its aftermath rather haunted Sam. She wanted to make sure that he didn't forget that there were people who cared about his well-being. But there was nothing in the least _romantic_ about any of these outings. She'd always insisted they go Dutch.

Towards the end of September, however, she'd noticed an increasing…awareness in Paul's presence. It was as though her senses had sharpened when she was near him, becoming attuned to the way his body moved: how the muscles in his shoulders shifted when he reached for a file or the small realignments behind his facial expressions. She found her fingers itching to trace Paul's lovely, dark eyebrows or to pick bits of lint off his suits. Whenever they happened to touch – for it suddenly seemed to Sam that Paul was always giving her friendly little pats of encouragement on her shoulder or elbow – little bunches of butterflies shifted nervously in her stomach. She didn't think Andrew had ever made her feel quite like this.

Sam had ignored these new feelings resolutely for as long as she could. Even when she had finally admitted to herself, just before Christmas, that she was falling in love with Paul, she had studiously kept her outward behavior just the same as it had been. She couldn't simply throw Andrew over, not when he was away doing his duty and couldn't help the distance between them. She owed him her constancy. And she could never face Mr. Foyle if she behaved that way towards his son.

At the same time, Sam also felt that she owed Paul her continued friendship. In fact, Sam didn't know which she dreaded more about the idea of trying to spend less time with Paul – losing Paul's friendship or for him to think that he had lost _hers_. So they'd continued just as they had, thick as thieves at the station and taking in the occasional picture.

And of course, Sam often thought in despair when she puzzled over the whole ghastly mess, quite apart from _her_ entanglement with Andrew and _Paul_ still being married to Jane (not that he owed that woman a damn thing given the way she'd treated him), Sam had no way of knowing if Paul could ever return her feelings. They'd been such good friends for so long, he probably thought of her as a sort of _sister_.

Arriving at her door, Sam let herself in and sorted through the accumulated post. Finally! – a letter from Andrew. She sat herself down in an armchair to read it.

Well. She had gotten her wish. Andrew had written, full of apologies and excuses, to say that he had met someone else in Debden. Sam felt a moment of perverse pain, as though there really was some sort of throbbing ache in her chest. Then she took a deep breath and a wonderful feeling of freedom and possibility rose within her. She read the letter again. Andrew concluded the letter with a wish that she could begin again with someone else.

Sam crumpled Andrew's letter in her fist. Begin again? Jolly good. She knew just where to start.

...

When Sam took her tea break the next day, she brought a cup for Paul, as she often did.

"What are you working on?" she asked, perching herself on one of the chairs in his office and taking a sip from her cup. It struck Sam that Paul was looking a little more drawn than usual. He sighed, leaned back in his chair, and launched into the sad tale of his friend Will Grayson's death by fire, intoxication, and a locked bedroom door.

"Poor man," she murmured, remaining silent for a minute and staring down at her tea. When the silence started to feel too long, she filled it with an account of her adventures from the previous evening, including the open invitation to the dance the Americans were planning to host. "I've decided to go," Sam added in conclusion, "You should come too."

"I don't think I'd be up to much at a big party." Paul stared gloomily into his teacup, thinking that a noisy, boisterous party would simply compound the sombre mood he'd been in since Will's death.

"Nonsense," Sam protested briskly, "The bigger the party, the less anyone expects of you." She had anticipated that Paul would balk somewhat at the suggestion, but she was confident that she could overcome his scruples, "It will do you good to get out and clear your head," she added, knowing that his mind was still wrapped up in his case, "And you can get to know the Americans, which would be good for the war effort."

"I think that it would do much more for Anglo-American relations if the Americans spent their time dancing with you rather than talking to me." Paul looked up from his cup with a sudden, rather mischievous smile that loosed the butterflies in Sam's stomach and caused her to giggle a bit more nervously than she would have wished.

"That's another reason you should come, then," Sam added, taking inspiration from the moment, "You can rescue me if someone tries to get fresh." Paul looked at Sam speculatively for a moment. He would have thought that she was more than capable of warding off unwanted advances. Sam was clearly trying to get him to go to the dance come what may; probably because she thought it would do him good, like their forays to the pictures.

"If that happens, shall I say that you're my wife or my sister?" he deadpanned. Somewhat to his surprise, Sam looked slightly startled and her cheeks reddened. Maybe his jest had overshot; that happened sometimes when he delivered them with a straight face.

"Please _promise_ me you'll come, Paul," Sam implored, ignoring Paul's question. She knew it had been for effect in any case, although she wasn't _quite_ sure whether or not it was meant as a joke. She sensed, regardless, that he was close to agreeing to come, and she brought out the last argument in her repertoire to ensure his attendance. "Come for the food if you don't come for any other reason. You wouldn't _believe_ the spread that the Americans put out."

"Very well, Sam, I'll come." Paul straightened up in his chair and picked up a pen, signalling to Sam that he wanted to get back to work.

"Good," Sam rose, relieved, and collected their empty cups. "And you must _promise_ me at least one dance," she added, on her way to the door. "Just because the Americans have arrived doesn't mean they should have everything their own way."

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**More Author's Notes:** True story - my father's parents, Jack and Hannah, met at a USO dance in the spring of 1944. (Actually, they met each other for the _very_ first time a couple of weeks earlier, but that encounter didn't result in anything particular and they were certainly not attending the dance in question with each other.) Hannah was dancing with someone else and Jack decided he wanted to cut in, so he walked right up to them and said to the other fellow, "Excuse me, but you're dancing with my wife." The other guy let go of Hannah like she was a hot potato and beat a hasty retreat. Jack and Hannah were married roughly three months later.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I lay claim to nothing about "Foyle's War" aside from the idea to make Sam Stewart and Paul Milner become more than just friends and all of the creative work that this entails. Up until "Invasion," Horowitz actually abets me more than otherwise, but this is where I begin to use canon as a guideline rather than a map. Sadly, I make no money from the endeavor either way.

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**Author's Notes: **This chapter would be only half as long (and half as good) without the excellent criticisms put forth by my Beta, GiulliettaC.

Plus, in honor of the new direction everything is now taking, new artwork!

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_**Late March, 1942**_

Sam was surprised, when she finally arrived at the American base, to find Mr. Foyle getting out of a taxi. She hadn't expected him to attend the dance, though she supposed that he had probably come as some sort of courtesy to Captain Kieffer. He professed some surprise on seeing her as well, which she shrugged off as best she could, remarking on the wonderful food that was likely to be on offer.

They walked in together and surrendered their coats to the young American acting as an usher. Paul was already waiting near the entrance of the dance hall, as he and Sam had arranged. Sam thought that Paul looked quite adorable in his gray sports coat and burgundy necktie; like a fetchingly overgrown schoolboy. The two men shook hands and Paul leaned in and gave Sam a peck on the cheek. It made her tingle all over to feel his lips briefly brush her skin, though she told herself sternly that he hadn't meant anything by it other than friendship and affection. Nothing romantic, certainly.

For his own part, surveying Sam's royal purple dress, ornamented with a crimson silk flower, Paul thought that he had never seen Sam look so…sophisticated. She stood out from the crowds of local girls in their dresses of pale pinks and blues. He was reminded of a phrase from a novel he had read once long ago – he couldn't remember the title – that a blonde woman could wear any colour to her advantage. They lived so much of their lives in their workaday clothes; it was a kind of revelation to see Sam out of her drab uniform, with her hair elaborately styled, and wearing some makeup. Tonight, she looked like a film star. Maybe she would need his help in keeping over-eager Americans in their place after all.

Mr. Foyle introduced Paul to Captain Kieffer, who was standing at the door playing host. Paul was struck by Kieffer's warm and outgoing manner, wondering momentarily how much to ascribe to his nationality and how much to the man himself. Then he, Sam, and Mr. Foyle made their way to the refreshment table. They each got some punch, and stood sipping their drinks, taking in the hall's decorations and the couples dancing to the lively music.

Standing about, Sam wondered what to do next. How was she supposed to get Paul to dance with her with Mr. Foyle standing right there? While she puzzled over how to proceed, one of the Americans – Sam recognized Joe Farnetti from the other evening – approached.

"You came," Joe beamed, enormously pleased.

"Yes, I did," Sam had to raise her voice slightly to be heard above the music.

"You wanna dance?" Sam hesitated a moment, watching the dance floor.

"You'll have to show me how," she said, putting down her drink and allowing herself to be led out into the crowd of dancing couples, throwing a quick smile backwards at Paul to indicate that they would catch up later.

...

Over the course of the next half hour, Paul was pleasantly surprised to discover that, as usual, Sam had been correct: he was genuinely enjoying himself. He spent some time socializing with Mr. Foyle, which he very seldom had occasion to do outside of work. He shared a pint with Captain Kieffer, who had asked Paul all about himself, and England, and the war. The American was fascinated by everything around him and eager for information, but perceptive enough not to press too hard when Paul spoke evasively about Norway and its aftermath. Recalling his own CO's rigid formality of manner and general air of unapproachability, Paul wondered if any of Kieffer's men appreciated how fortunately they were placed. Kieffer didn't make Paul do all the talking either, but returned the favor as well, speaking about his family and his life back in America, which Paul found equally interesting.

And all the while, Paul kept an eye on the dance floor, watching Sam spin and whirl. Over the course of six songs, she danced with three different men. She was aglow with the pleasure of the evening, in her element in a way that Paul didn't think he had ever seen her before. His memory harked back to the week she had stayed with him a year and a half ago and how much they had enjoyed dancing to the wireless in his kitchen. He found himself thinking, rather wistfully, that he would like to ask Sam to dance with him tonight. If he could fight his way through the queue of Americans with the same idea.

And then suddenly, Sam had materialized in front of him.

"You owe me a dance, Paul," Sam informed him, slightly breathless from her previous exertions. He offered her no resistance as she pulled him in amongst the other couples. She reached up and let her left hand come to rest lightly on his shoulder, felt the slight pressure of his hand on the small of her back as they started to move about to the music. They hadn't had occasion to dance since the meals they had shared a year ago, courtesy of Sergeant Rivers' onion. In the months that followed, Sam had thought occasionally of inviting Paul to go dancing, but had never actually done so. Then, when she had sensed her feelings towards him changing in more recent months, she had never dared suggest they go dancing, certain that she would betray her feelings if she and Paul were thrown together in that way.

But now, everything was going to change.

"Any of the Americans give you problems?" Paul asked the first question that occurred to him, trying to combat a sudden, rather odd case of nerves. This song lacked the frenetic beat of the last, allowing for conversation while dancing. He and Sam had never danced to something with such a leisurely pace before.

"No, no; they've all behaved themselves," Sam assured him brightly, "Joe," she gestured across the room where Farnetti was chatting up another girl, "Taught me something called the jitterbug."

"What's _that_?" It didn't sound particularly pleasant, but there were so many odd American idioms floating about – it could mean anything.

"It's a dance; I'll teach it to you now that I know it – it's not hard. He's from California – I got him to tell me something about what it's like out there. It doesn't rain very much, he says."

"And what about your other partners?"

"Well there was another chap named Lawrence. He said he's from Nebraska. I thought that was where "The Wizard of Oz" took place, although apparently that's Kansas, which is one state over. He spent most of our dances telling me about his fiancée, Jean. She sounds like a lovely girl. Though, of course, the word he used was 'swell'." The Americans seemed inordinately fond of that adjective to indicate that they liked something or someone.

"How's Andrew?" Feeling slightly guilty, though he would have been hard pressed to say what for, Paul reminded himself that Sam also had a sweetheart whom she must be missing.

"He's well," Sam replied breezily. Of course, Paul _would_ ask after Andrew. Time to start setting the record straight. "I had a letter from him just the other day. He's met someone else, in Debden. We're not together anymore."

"Oh, Sam." Dismayed, he scrutinized her face as though searching for signs that she was concealing a broken heart behind her joyous demeanor. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, please," Sam protested earnestly, "It's very much for the best. We'd been drifting apart for some time; I noticed it in his letters. But I couldn't bring myself to be the one to end it."

"Are you really all right, Sam?" Paul's forehead wrinkled in concern, "You don't have to hide it if you're upset, not from me."

"Everything's tickety-boo, Paul," Sam reassured him with a small smile. "I don't have any regrets. Andrew's a sweet boy. They're all sweet boys," she observed, gesturing with her head around the room filled with young Americans. Sam took a deep, steadying breath. "But I'm tired of boys," she added quietly, her manner suddenly serious, glancing up and meeting Paul's eyes.

There was a pause wherein their bodies continued to move automatically and Sam held her breath, waiting for Paul to process her words. She could tell when he had; his eyes widened just perceptibly and the pressure of his hand on the small of her back increased slightly.

As she waited for him to respond verbally in some way, wondering if she ought to follow up her words with something else, Sam became aware of a disturbance in the atmosphere of the room. She heard a gasp of dismay and a rise in the murmur of conversation around them.

"Sergeant Milner?" They both turned their heads and saw – _Oh Lord, Mr. Foyle of all people_! Immediately they broke apart and turned to face their boss. Sam could feel a blush starting to burn her cheeks. She felt certain that no one but Paul had heard her disclosure. She had no idea, however, what she and Paul, sharing this slow dance, might have looked like to an outsider. Especially one as shrewd and observant as Mr. Foyle. Could he tell the nature of the moment he had interrupted? She didn't dare glance at Paul in case he looked as guilty as she felt. "We're needed, Sergeant," Mr. Foyle informed Paul, "Someone's found a body." Watching the two men walk away, Sam fancied there had been a certain acerbic edge to the DCS's voice, although she prayed it was merely her imagination.

...

The girl was lying in one of the back hallways. Paul stared down at her, taking note of all the details she presented. Curly hair. Pale pink dress. New stockings. Fresh bruises purpling her neck. She should have been dancing and enjoying the evening, the way all of the other girls had been. It was an abomination that while they had all – himself included – been having so much fun, some…butcher had snuffed out this bright young life.

Unbidden, the image of Sam appeared before him, aglow with vitality. _Had she really said that she_…? Before Paul could complete the thought, he shook himself mentally. There would be time later to think about Sam, and their dance, and their conversation. Now he had to concentrate on the job at hand. For the moment, Paul banished all thoughts of Sam to the realm of his subconscious and resumed his study of the crime scene.

Clutched in one of the girl's hands were a set of American identity discs belonging to a Private James Taylor. Checking her identity card, Paul recognized the name: Susan Davies. The barmaid from the Wheatsheaf whom he had wanted to question. He was sure that she had known how Will Grayson had come to be so mysteriously drunk – either she had sold him the stuff or she knew who had. Possibly the landlord, Carter. This much Paul knew from experience: innocent witnesses were seldom so slippery to track down and didn't ignore requests from the police to look in and provide information.

It was a very long night. After getting permission from a suddenly less than cooperative and by-the-book Captain Kieffer, they spoke with Private Taylor. He had been taken ill at the dance and was resting in a room just off the hall where Susan had been strangled. He reported hearing her argue with someone – something about her "still working" – he had been too foggy to process much more than that. Taylor was clearly hiding something, but he seemed genuinely shocked to discover that his dog-tags weren't still safely around his own neck – let alone that they had been found on the dead girl.

Sam had been sent home for the night along with all the other party goers; a constable drove Paul and Mr. Foyle to Susan's home for the supremely unpleasant task of informing her parents. Her father let them examine her room. Toiletries and cosmetics on her dressing table. A picture of her with her fiancé, Ben, who was in the navy. A picture of herself from when she had worked at a chemical plant near Bexley the previous year. Paul found a diary, mostly empty, with a date in January circled. Her father hadn't known its significance.

...

The Medical Officer had shed light on that the next day, though: Susan had been pregnant. And certainly not by her fiancé, who had only returned the previous night on leave, according to her parents. An interview with Susan's doctor confirmed this. The same doctor had attended the dance the night before and treated Private Taylor when he was taken ill. He couldn't say what had caused the gastritis – either food or alcohol. Taylor had been decidedly intoxicated. But also most genuinely ill.

As Sam drove Mr. Foyle back to the American headquarters, she steeled herself to tell him about Andrew's letter. When she had picked up Mr. Foyle that morning, he had asked her about the dance – had she seen anything of Susan Davies' movements? Sam had precious little to offer. After all, she had been dancing.

"Yes, I saw," had been the dry, somewhat testy reply. Had he divined the nature of her interrupted conversation with Paul? Or simply disapproved of her behaviour in general? He was obviously being protective of Andrew. Sam knew this wasn't really an appropriate conversation to have while they were both on duty, but they were so seldom in each other's company off duty. And if she really planned on pursuing Paul, essentially under the DCS's very nose, she had to set the record straight before he got all the wrong ideas about her. Or worse – about Paul.

"Sir?" she stopped him before he went up the steps of the American headquarters, "I know this isn't the right place or the right time, but there's something I've been meaning to tell you. I got a letter from Andrew the other day, and…he's sort of thrown me over, I'm afraid. He's met someone else." Sam had only slightly exaggerated her insouciance the previous evening when telling Paul the same thing, but it wouldn't be fair to Mr. Foyle to let him think that she hadn't genuinely cared about Andrew, so out of compassion for her boss, she allowed more emotion to colour her voice.

"I didn't know that." It wasn't very often that she saw Mr. Foyle betray surprise.

"No, there's no reason why you should. I didn't want to mention it on duty, but… He was very nice about it… Very honest. And it's absolutely true that with him in Debden and me over here, it really wasn't going to work. Well…there we are. I just thought that you should know." Her relief at coming to the end of her announcement was palpable, as was her embarrassment over having to discuss the whole thing. But it was worth the trouble just to get everything off her chest. Mr. Foyle had thanked her quite kindly before resuming his duties. Watching him mount the stairs and enter the building, Sam reflected that now she was truly free to carry on with her plans regarding Paul.

...

Mr. Foyle hadn't spent very long with the Americans, and as soon as he and Sam drove away, they returned to the station to pick up Paul and two other cars' worth of reinforcements. Sam listened to Mr. Foyle briefing Paul as she drove. The DCS had gotten Private Taylor to admit that Susan Davies had been supplying the Americans with bootleg liquor, which was what Taylor had been drinking before he had fallen ill.

"Of course…" Sam's gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror and caught the comprehension dawning over Paul's features as all of the puzzle pieces slotted themselves neatly into place, "Her father told me that she spent a year working at Benson's chemical plant before she started at the Wheatsheaf."

"She would have picked up enough knowledge and training to operate a still. And what better place to run an operation like that than out of a pub?"

"That was what she sold Will, then. Industrial alcohol." Something had changed in Paul's voice as he spoke the last two words and Sam glanced back again. Paul looked like someone who had just bitten into something nasty and was longing to spit it out. Preferably into the face of the cook responsible. "So when he said that he couldn't see, it was because…"

"Yup," Mr. Foyle confirmed, "Of course, Carter must be in this up to his neck," he added.

"Did he kill her, do you think? To keep her quiet?" Paul's voice had gone very calm and quiet, but Sam's next check in the mirror showed her a face like thunder with flashing eyes.

"It's possible. He was certainly seen at the dance," Mr. Foyle agreed.

When they arrived at the Wheatsheaf, Sam could feel the force with which Paul slammed the door of the Wolseley; the tremor traveled through the body of the car and up the steering wheel. She watched him stride ahead of Mr. Foyle into the building, the embodiment of Nemesis, and her stomach started to twist in apprehension. She knew how deeply he had been affected by his friend Will's death, but in all the time they had been working together, she had never seen Paul so angry. Gripping the wheel momentarily, she closed her eyes and prayed that Paul wouldn't do anything he would come to regret later.

...

Facing Carter across the bar of the Wheatsheaf, Paul could feel what little patience he had slipping away rapidly. Carter must know that prevarication was useless at this point – the man clearly had the wind up – but he was still doing his best to bluff on a losing hand.

"Where is it?" Paul demanded.

"Where is what?" bleated Carter, feigning incomprehension.

"The still." Paul's glare would have melted wax.

"Sir?" A constable had poked his head in the back door and indicated for everyone to follow him. They all filed out. There was a gardening shed behind the pub. "This way, Sir," the constable preceded Paul, Carter, and another uniform into a back room. The still sat quietly amidst its coils of wire. Next to it stood a table, strewn with bottles of varying sizes and full to varying degrees.

Paul entered the room, eyeing the instrument of Will's destruction with undisguised revulsion. He picked up a random bottle from the table, uncorked it, and sniffed its neck; his head jerked back involuntarily from the fumes. He felt a moment's flare of rage against Will (_What possessed him to swallow this poison?_), but it was immediately redirected towards Carter, who had sold the stuff to make a profit.

"Cuff him." The two constables obeyed their Sergeant's order and handcuffed Carter. Paul eyed the older man: another petty crook looking for an easy way to exploit the war and the men who were sacrificing everything for the relative safety and relative comfort of those at home. Carter had known nothing, and cared less, for Will's bravery and Will's misery, and for Will's painful, horrific, unnecessary death; the direct result of Carter's greed. To Carter, Will had just been someone looking to get drunk fast, discarded without a second thought once the exchange of cash for alcohol had been made. He had been indifferent to the consequences that might be suffered from anyone drinking that terrible stuff. Paul felt the familiar rage that, in one form or another, had dogged him ever since Norway. He had always managed, however, to control himself. Now, deliberately, Paul let his restraint fall away. This time, by God, there would _be_ consequences.

_Make him…_

"Give us a minute, would you?" he ordered the constables. They left the room and Carter started to sidle after them. "Not you, Carter," Paul added curtly, "Sit down." Carter obeyed.

_Make him…_

Paul slowly approached the seated man, who appeared to be trying to shrink within himself, perhaps expecting a blow of some sort. When Paul made his move, it was from a direction that Carter hadn't been expecting. He reached around from behind, pinning the older man's head in place, pinching his nose and jerking back his head. With his other hand, Paul grabbed another bottle and uncorked it with his teeth. Spitting out the cork, he started to pour the contents down Carter's throat, as he choked and spluttered and struggled.

_Make him take his own medicine…_

"Sarge?" One of the constables had returned. Perhaps, on hearing a struggle, he'd thought that Carter was giving trouble. More likely, the constable had had a shrewd idea of what had been going through Sergeant Milner's mind, and come back before Carter could come to serious harm.

"Get him out of here," Paul spat in disgust, releasing his choke hold on Carter, hauling the landlord to his feet by his coat collar, and flinging him at the constable. He watched them leave the room, struggling to get himself under control once more. There were several large bottles littering the table by the still, with the dregs of some viscous liquid in them. Paul hefted one and smashed it against the still. It did precious little to relieve his feelings.

...

Paul could still feel his temper simmering in the interrogation room, sitting across from Carter and listening to him making his excuses. According to him, Susan Davies had come up with the idea. She had worked at Benson's Chemicals and knew how to set up the still. She had talked him into it. They had never intended to harm anybody. Mr. Foyle entered the room during Carter's litany and began to lay into the landlord as well, in the very quiet, devastating way that the DCS had perfected to an art form.

"Industrial strength alcohol, however you disguise it, can cause asphyxia, insanity, blindness, death…

"No," Carter protested.

"Will Grayson is dead because of you." Paul funneled the intensity of his anger, his disgust, and his grief into his voice and his eyes. He didn't dare raise his voice or raise his hand against Carter a second time. If he let loose again, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop. Mr. Foyle's presence helped Paul maintain his control.

"It wasn't my fault," Carter reiterated doggedly.

"He didn't want his father to know what he was doing, so he locked the door. And drank a bottle of it." Bile rose in Paul's throat as he spoke and he wished, not for the first time in the last hour, that the constable had been less conscientious in interrupting his administration of rough justice. "The room caught fire," Paul pressed on, "but he was blind – blind drunk. That's what your moonshine had done to him. He called out to his father, 'I can't see.' But it wasn't the smoke – it wasn't the fire – it was _you_."

"No."

"There was a key right beside the bed. But he couldn't see it to let himself out. You killed him, Mr. Carter."

"No, I told you, it was never my idea. It was the girl. I have stopped. I was going to destroy it." It was at this point that Mr. Foyle pointed out some scratches on Carter's neck. The landlord's increasingly agonized denials dissolved into hesitancy and confusion. He claimed to have been clearing brambles. When they tested his blood, however, it matched what they had found under Susan Davies' fingernails. Finally, wearily, Carter confessed to her murder. It all came back to the still. After what had happened to Will, he'd wanted to shut down operations, but Susan was ambitious; she had wanted the money and was adamant to keep on going. He'd snapped.

...

Late in the afternoon, Sam prowled the station restlessly, worrying. She didn't know what had happened at the Wheatsheaf, but Paul had returned to the car fairly quivering with rage, with a rather strange look in his eyes. He hadn't said a word the whole way back to the station.

From some chance remarks overheard later in the day, when passing the canteen, Sam gathered that Paul had lost his temper with Carter in some way.

"Still waters run deep is what I says. And Sergeant Milner is _deep_." She thought she recognized the voice of Constable Simpson, one of the men who had been present at the Wheatsheaf.

"Carter had it coming to him, he did," replied another uniform named... Brown, Sam thought, "They say he's the one what did for that girl at the dance. Anyway, there's no harm done and what does it matter?"

Sam had puzzled over this cryptic exchange for a few minutes before finally dismissing it. She had seen Carter when he was escorted into the station. He hadn't appeared injured in any way. She wasn't aware that Mr. Foyle had reprimanded Paul for any inappropriate behaviour. So whatever Paul had done couldn't have been so very terrible.

Peering through the glass walls of Paul's office, Sam could see that he was working away at his desk. The clacking of his type writer was just audible through the closed door against the background noises of the station beginning to wind down for the day.

Reaching a decision, Sam returned to the canteen and collected a cup of tea. She looked around for some biscuits. Finding none, she retrieved her handbag, fished out the packet that she kept there, and arranged several on the saucer. Then, taking a deep breath, she gave a very light tap on Paul's door and eased it open.

Her entrance had been deliberately quiet, giving her several moments of observation before Paul noticed her presence. His earlier rage appeared to have transformed itself into a concentrated, intensely burning energy. Paul was attacking his report with the single-mindedness of a man intent on exorcising an evil spirit. He looked up, somewhat startled, when Sam was feet from his desk.

"I brought you some tea," she said gently, stating the obvious, setting the cup and saucer down near his hand. He looked blankly from her, to the tea, and back again, as though he couldn't quite process her sudden appearance.

Paul blinked and his mind, still preoccupied with wrapping up the case, caught up with his other senses. Sam had brought him some tea. He had forgotten that he was hungry.

"Thank you," he replied, looking up into her face. Their eyes met for a moment and he sensed her wordless sympathy as clearly as if she'd spoken the words aloud. She sensed the overwhelming and commanding urgency that was driving him to officially close this investigation and put it behind him. They hadn't had any opportunity to speak to each other since their interrupted dance, and now was not the time to begin. She would continue, for the moment, to bide her time.

"Good luck, Paul," Sam added, leaving his office and closing his door as noiselessly as she had entered.

Processing all of the paperwork kept Paul at his desk long after everyone else had gone home. But he stayed on, typing away. He was determined to get this case and everything to do with Carter out of his system. Until it was, he couldn't think of anything else. But, as he drank his tea between mouthfuls of biscuit he remembered – blearily – that there was something very important to which he needed to devote some serious thought.

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**More Author's Notes: **Just wanted to give a shout-out to the cameo I gave my father-in-law's parents, Lawrence and Jean, of Omaha, Nebraska. It's been my privilege, this past year, to have had the opportunity to begin transcribing their correspondence from his time in the service. Lawrence (who really was handsome enough to be a film star) was the kind of correspondent that any woman with a sweetheart overseas would have given anything to have: he wrote to Jean at least once a week, usually far more frequently. He often wrote quite long, detailed letters about all of the things he was doing, the people he was meeting, and the places he was seeing. And no matter whether the letter was one page or fourteen, he always made sure to tell her that he loved her.

And he really did overuse the word "Swell" every bit as much as the GIs in "Invasion."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** Out of canon, off the grid, everything out of my own head. Except, of course, that the characters still belong ultimately to Anthony Horowitz.

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**Author's Notes: **Thanks to my Beta, GiulliettaC, without whom this chapter would have been much more insipid and not nearly as satisfying.

Enjoy the weekend, Ladies...

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_**April, 1942**_

When Paul finally dragged himself home after typing out all of his notes, he had gone straight to bed and fallen into a sleep of pure exhaustion. When he woke up, it was five o'clock in the morning, but he knew it was useless to try getting back to sleep. His mind, already sharp and alert, had cast itself back to the dance at the American base a couple of nights ago, and to Sam's startling words.

_I'm tired of boys…_

Despite the early hour, Paul went through his usual morning routine of dressing and shaving. Then he went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. As he waited for the water to boil, he filled the time with tidying the kitchen, putting the clean dishes on the draining board away in the cupboard. It was only when he was sitting at the table, inhaling the steam from his cup of tea, that he began to really ponder Sam's declaration.

He knew what her words had meant when she had spoken them: that she had not only been talking _to_ him, but _about_ him. Paul was still a young man, but he hadn't been a boy in years, not since long before the war. He had nearly a decade on Sam, and Andrew, and on the majority of the young men present at the dance the other night. The difference in age wasn't all that significant, but the experience of life they encompassed made the gap noticeable. He had spent his childhood in the shadow of the last war – events which none of them would remember personally even if they had been born before the official Armistice Day. He had seen the horrors of war for himself and lost his leg to the meat grinder of the battlefield. He had found love (or so he had thought) and subsequently watched his marriage crumble.

How long had Sam been thinking of him in this way? What were his feelings towards her? He couldn't even begin to fathom the answer to the first question. As for the second…

He thought that Sam was everything lovely, from her looks to her outlook on life. Under different circumstances, Paul acknowledged to himself, he would probably have fallen for her head over heels a long time ago and might have even made a serious play for her as well. But, when their friendship had begun, Paul had considered himself a married man. Or, rather, he had thought that he still had a marriage that could be salvaged. By the time that illusion had well and truly died, Sam had been involved with Andrew Foyle. So Paul had quite simply never _allowed_ himself to think of her in any other way but as a cherished friend and colleague.

Moreover, he had prized Sam's friendship for the gift it was: something very precious that kept his life from being as solitary and colourless as it might otherwise have been. And now, apparently, she wanted to offer him an even greater gift – if he would take it. These past few years, he'd grown accustomed to resigning himself to things. Resigned to losing his leg. Resigned to Jane's desertion. It had been barely a conscious thought, upon learning of Sam's relationship with Andrew, to resign himself to the fact that someone as beautiful and sparkling as Sam would naturally gravitate to a glamorous fighter pilot of her own age rather than a quiet, plodding detective sergeant close to ten years her senior with an estranged wife. Elbows planted on the table, Paul buried his face in the palms of his hands and groaned aloud.

Bloody Jane. He'd written to Jane last summer (now that he thought of it, it had been after his first trip to the pictures with Sam – had that been when all this had started?) suggesting that they get a divorce. Jane had never answered. It was starting to appear as though he would simply have to wait out the time required before desertion became grounds for divorce. Sometimes Paul thought of himself and Jane as divorced already, though he knew that wasn't legally the case. The whole state of affairs was an odd sort of thing, neither fish nor fowl. He hadn't felt _married_ in donkey's years, though he was still bound by the legal and moral restraints of marriage. How could he, in good conscience, allow himself to become involved with _anybody_ while he was still tied to Jane? Forlornly, he wondered what he had to offer.

Paul left his house at daybreak and walked to the station in the chill spring mist. He might as well begin with the day's duties; his solitary cogitation wasn't proving particularly productive. Approaching the station's front doors, Paul saw them open and a figure barreled out towards him: Sam. Paul's heart did a painful somersault as he watched her hurrying his way. How long had she been there, waiting for him?

"I had a feeling you'd be in early." Sam's voice was breathless, but her face uncharacteristically solemn. She looked as though she had slept poorly. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Of course. Where…?" It was too early and too cold to sit on a public bench. Paul didn't fancy having their anticipated discussion in the station, where someone might take note of them. He ran through the nearby cafés and tearooms in his mind, but before he could make a suggestion, Sam had gestured for him to follow her. She led the way to the parked Wolseley, opened the back door and slid herself along the seat, making room for Paul, who clambered in after her and closed the door. It was unheated, but at least it was out of the wind. They sat facing each other.

"Are you all right?" Sam began, "After yesterday? I saw how upset you were."

Paul passed a hand over his face, rubbing his tired eyes. The memory of the way he'd gone spare at Carter the day before had taken on the quality of a painful hallucination, leaving him deeply embarrassed. He hoped that Sam would never come to hear any of the specifics.

"I'm all right." The statement teetered quite close to honesty although it failed to land squarely on target. "I stayed late yesterday to get the report written. It cleared my head."

"Good. I was worried," Sam smiled wanly.

"Thank you again for the tea and biscuits." Paul gazed at Sam intently, seeming to see her with new eyes. He had grown accustomed to her concern for his welfare. He had welcomed it and treasured it, the way he had the rest of Sam's friendship. In his state of isolated self-reliance, it was a thing too conspicuously lacking for him to take lightly. But now he also saw, undisguised, a depth of tenderness and care that made his heart race despite his earlier self-doubts.

"Sam," he began gently, "what you said the other night, at the dance…" He saw Sam begin to chew on her lower lip from nerves. "Did you really mean it?"

"Yes, Paul. I did." The words rang with simply stated honesty.

"How long have you felt like that?"

"Ages," she began, absently smoothing down the fabric of her skirt, the beginnings of a blush augmenting cheeks already glowing from the cold, "Since before Christmas. But of course…with Andrew… I couldn't tell you before now." Peering anxiously into Paul's face, partially shaded by the hat he still wore, Sam gulped, "Do you think…could you…could you come to feel the same way about me?"

He took a moment before replying, tracing her features with his eyes: the curves and contours of her cheeks and chin, the lines of her nose and lips, the arch of her eyebrows above her eyes, grown huge with trepidation. And the answer he should give became obvious.

"I think…that I already do," he said, matching Sam's gravity. Then he smiled, slightly dazed by the admission he had just made, both to Sam and to himself, "Only, I needed you to show me what was right under my nose. As usual."

"Oh, thank Heavens!" Sam exclaimed, slumping back against the Wolseley's interior as the tension left her body in a sudden rush. She took off her cap and ran her palm up her forehead and over her neat hair. "I meant for us to talk everything through at the dance, but then they found that poor girl… And then of course you and Mr. Foyle had to interview everyone and there was no _time_ to talk to you, and I couldn't distract you with something like this when _of course_ the inquiry had to come first. But all the time I was wondering what you had made of what I said and I was so afraid," she leaned forward and clutched Paul's gloved hand, "That I had completely put my foot in it and that you were going to say that you thought of me like you would your sister and we should just go on being friends." Sam let go of his hand with the same suddenness that she had seized it. "I had the most rotten night's sleep and finally gave it up for a bad job around five and made straight for the station so that I could catch you early, and…here we are." The words tumbled helter-skelter from her lips with a return of all of her customary verve, making Paul feel with some relief that the Sam he knew and whose company he enjoyed so much had reappeared.

Even so, his earlier doubts crept back into his mind. "But listen, Sam…" Paul began, his brief euphoria fading.

"No, no, no, no, no, Paul!" Sam's interruption was immediate and vehement, "No 'but, Sam'." She grabbed his hand again and clung to it. "I won't let you take back what you just said to me."

"But how can this work? How can we be anything _but_ friends?" he reasoned.

"What on earth do you mean?" She stared owlishly at him, and he was struck again by just how tired she looked.

"Jane and I are still married. You realize that? How can you and I start…anything?"

"You don't really feel that you owe…_that woman_…any consideration – do you?" Sam's candour made Paul blink in surprise. He knew just how far removed Sam was from the stereotypical idea of a vicar's daughter. She was broad-minded and generous, not prim or naïve. She had seen quite a few glimpses of the seedier sides of life while working for the police. But he hadn't expected her to be so frank and to simply brush Jane's bothersome existence aside like so much lint. "Paul," Sam added sharply since he hadn't responded to her first question, "Surely you don't still have any feelings for her?"

"No, no," Paul hastened to reassure Sam, "My feelings aren't the problem." He never even thought of Jane from one month to the next except as a nuisance that he could never quite shake. "But I can't…we can't simply pretend that there aren't legal obligations tying me down."

"I understand all that, Paul. I've given this a great deal of thought. But none of your so-called 'obligations' bothers me in the least." Sam relaxed again, but maintained her hold on Paul's hand. They were quiet for a moment. "We've been such _good_ friends," Sam said, "And we're going to go _right on_ being good friends. Only now we're going to give ourselves the chance to become more."

"But what would we tell people? What about your parents? They would never approve." He scrutinized her face anxiously. It wasn't only a question of his legal obligations. She looked completely untroubled by any idea of what people might say or think if they knew she was romantically involved with a married man.

"We don't need to tell anyone anything, do we? Everyone at the station already knows that we're friends. I know how to act professionally at work. You know that you do too. As for my parents… They know all about you, and Mr. Foyle, and the work you both do from my letters. But I've never told them everything about my life here in Hastings. I never really told them much about Andrew, to be honest. So, can't we simply let people come to realize that things between us have changed…_as_ things change?"

Paul took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting Sam's words suffuse his mind with their optimism and pragmatism. Maybe…maybe this could be more than an idea of castle-in-the-air fantasy. Maybe this was really a step that he could take – that they could take together. He squeezed her hand and smiled shyly, looking down at their gloved fingers intertwined. And Sam knew, looking at him, that he had acquiesced, and that a new vista was opening in front of them. As she studied his face, his smile gradually broadened.

"We never got to finish our dance the other night," he remarked teasingly.

"No, I don't suppose we did," Sam returned his smile, feeling giddy with relief and delight in equal measure.

"Don't you think that we ought to?"

"Oh, absolutely," Sam beamed, and it seemed to Paul that she filled the car with her own particular light. They sat gazing at each other in congenial silence. There was something almost worshipful about the look in Paul's eyes, and Sam thought, for an instant, that he was about to lean forward and kiss her. The thrill of anticipation, flowing from every part of her body, fell flat as the moment passed and he made no move. But before either disappointment or confusion could cloud the brightness of the occasion, Paul spoke again.

"You can't have any idea…what having you in my life has meant to me. These past two years. Having you for my friend." Their hands were still clasped, and his thumb caressed her knuckles as he spoke. Despite the layers of leather from his gloves and from hers, his touch sent delicious shivers up her arm, while the nearly heartbreaking gratitude of his words and tone brought tears to her eyes. Further words seemed to fail Paul for the moment and he tightened his grip on her hand. How to articulate all of the little ways that she brought joy and warmth into his life? The way that she had kept him from retreating further inside the echoing cavern of loneliness that his life might have been, kept him from burying himself in his work the way other men drowned themselves in drink. "You've been my lifeline," he finally managed, finding the words inadequate but unable to think of anything better.

"I'm so glad," Sam murmured, humbled and touched by Paul's words. She sat, drinking in his features and wishing, with a hollow ache inside her chest, that Paul would kiss her; wondering why he didn't. Was he afraid of being seen by some constable from the day shift? A nearby clock chimed the quarter hour and Paul glanced at his watch. It was nearly time for Sam to go and pick up Mr. Foyle. He didn't want to let go of her hand.

"When would you like to go dancing?" he asked, trying to shift his mental gears back from their idyll to the mundane routine that stretched before them.

In spite of herself, Sam's next words were lost in a huge yawn. "Not tonight, perhaps. I think I'll need an early night," she told him apologetically. She almost seemed to be emerging from a lovely dream. Except that this had been real, she reminded herself.

"At the weekend, maybe?" Paul asked, forcing himself to flex his fingers and detach his hand from Sam's.

"All right," Sam agreed with an eager grin, then took note of the time as well and reluctantly began to stir herself. "I'll see you soon, then?" she added, already missing the feel of Paul's hand holding hers.

"Yes," Paul replied, "Quite soon." They climbed out of the Wolseley's back seat, and Sam took her usual position behind the wheel, driving off with a radiant backwards smile. Paul watched her turn a corner and disappear, then, with a new spring in his step, walked into the station to begin the working day.

...

Their evening out, three nights later, began promisingly enough. They met up at the dance hall and left their coats with the cloakroom attendant, discovering, to their mutual delight, that each had decided to wear the same clothes as they had to the ill-fated party at the American base. Walking in together, as they made for the dance floor, Paul enjoyed the heady pleasure of being accompanied by the prettiest girl in the room. Added to this was the sheer awe that, of all the places that Sam could have gone, and all of the fellows with whom she could have chosen to spend her time, she had actually chosen to be here with him.

And then everything had started to fall apart. After their first couple of dances, Paul found that he couldn't think of anything to say to Sam. It was as if he'd regressed from a thirty two year old man to some lad of fifteen, trying to work up the courage to talk to a pretty girl at school. As if he and Sam hadn't spent close to two years talking to each other about everything under the sun. His mind was paralyzed by an undercurrent of panic; every idea that flitted through his brain sounded trite and clumsy.

It wasn't until they were sitting out a dance, sipping drinks, that Sam began to notice Paul's unease. He wasn't a hugely chatty person as a rule, but just now he seemed enveloped in a fidgety sort of silence, not one of repose. She was essentially keeping up both ends of the conversation, and while talking the hind leg off of a donkey had always been one of her strong suits, even she sensed the atmosphere between them growing quickly awkward and cast about in her mind for something to say.

"I promised to teach you the jitterbug. Shall we try that at the next fast number?"

"Yes, that's a good idea." Paul's tone was wooden. Sam had been on awkward dates before, but usually with chaps she didn't know very well, which could make finding common ground difficult. She and Paul had known each other for so long, it had never occurred to her that this sort of awkwardness could crop up between them. She studied Paul's face for a moment as he stared down at his drink and decided to face this new problem as she usually faced others: head on.

"Is everything all right, Paul? You've been so quiet." Paul grimaced and seemed to hold a momentary inward debate with himself.

"I can't think of a blessed thing to say," he finally admitted, frustration writ large over his face, "Not a _blessed_ thing. I don't know why."

_Nerves_, Sam reassured herself, _Just nerves_. Now to tackle reassuring Paul. "It's just because everything seems so new," she began, projecting self-assurance as best she could, "even though it isn't – not really. I'm still Sam Stewart and you're still Paul Milner, even if we _are_ dressed up and out dancing. I don't want you to talk to me about the moon and stars. I don't want clever words and poetry because you think that's what you ought to be saying to me." _I had enough of that with Andrew_, she added to herself, _and what did it really amount to at the end of the day_? She paused and watched as Paul's posture relaxed slightly. "Tell me what you did today," Sam suggested.

"What?"

"Start telling me every blessed little thing that you did at the station today. Every piece of paper you touched. Then I'll tell you everything that I did and everything that I watched Mr. Foyle do. I think that somewhere in all of that, we'll remember how to have a genuine conversation. What was the first thing you did this morning?" Paul cast his mind back to the beginning of the day, then a mischievous grin tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"I opened my eyes and reached the obvious conclusion that I wasn't dead." Paul tried to keep a straight face as Sam dissolved into giggles, but her laugh was infectious and he started laughing too, the nervous tension draining from his body. When they had both recovered, she made him play the game in earnest. Then they returned to the dance floor and Sam taught him how to jitterbug, as promised.

...

It was a wonderful night after all. As Paul walked Sam home afterwards, they both agreed that they would go out dancing again next week, if not sooner. As they walked side by side, the arms of their coats just brushing each other, Sam pondered the past few days at the station. She congratulated herself that they had both behaved with irreproachable professionalism, despite the delicious frisson of awareness she now felt whenever they were in each other's vicinity.

But it was odd, now that she came to think of it. From the time they had emerged from the Wolseley until going dancing tonight, Paul hadn't touched her once. And he had always used to – never inappropriately, of course: a sympathetic or encouraging pat on her shoulder, or her arm, or her elbow when sympathy or encouragement were warranted. An occasional fleeting pressure of his fingers on the small of her back when she preceded him through a door. These informal physical contacts had driven her rather wild when she had been pining after him. Now they had all stopped completely, which Sam assumed was part of Paul's conscious effort to behave professionally at the station. Still, she found herself missing them.

Their footsteps slowed as they approached the door of Sam's lodgings and their conversation petered out. Sam's stomach began to fill with hopeful butterflies, anticipating a kiss to crown their first real, official outing as a couple. When she glanced up at Paul's shadowed face, however, Sam perceived, with dismay, a kind of frozen hesitation settling over it.

Of course, Sam knew that Paul wasn't…impulsive the way that she was. He was more thoughtful, more cautious. This was part of what made him so good at his job. But in this instance, Sam could sense Paul's restraint – or was it something else? – holding him back almost against his will, and she determined not to be cheated out of a kiss twice in one week.

For his part, Paul couldn't say why he was suddenly afraid of kissing Sam. The idea of doing so had hovered at the back of his mind ever since they had left the dance hall. He knew that Sam must be expecting a kiss at this point in their evening. He was sure she would welcome one. She was so beautiful, and golden, and inviting, even in the dim light of the blacked out streets. Yet something in him seemed to have frozen from the inside out, holding him in check. A dread had awoken in him that once he finally kissed Sam, their relationship would change irrevocably, with no going back.

They reached Sam's doorstep and came to a halt. She turned to face Paul and stood still, waiting. He stood, looking down at her as though she were suddenly transformed into a crystal statue liable to shatter under his lightest touch. Sam studied his face, looking for the key that would solve this problem for them both.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she asked gently, reaching out and capturing one of his hands in hers.

"I want to." The contrasting emotions of terror, frustration, and desire warred across Paul's face and roughened his voice slightly.

"Well then…?" In a flash of insight, Sam divined part of the problem. _Jane_. It wasn't that Paul still loved Jane. It wasn't even that he thought it was wrong to kiss someone else while he and Jane were still legally married. But Jane had been the last person to whom Paul had opened himself romantically. And she'd been so horrible to him, leaving him in the lurch, leaving him so utterly bereft. Sam reached out and took his other hand, holding both hands tightly as though to say: _I'm not going anywhere_.

"But then everything…" Paul faltered, struggling to find the right words.

"Yes?" Sam persisted.

"Everything will have changed and I couldn't bear to lose…"

"Lose what?"

"Your friendship," Paul managed. Sam nodded her head briefly in comprehension. Her friendship. His lifeline, he had called it during their conversation in the Wolseley a few days ago. And once they kissed, they would move beyond friendship to a place where both the rewards and the perils were much greater, as Paul already knew to his cost.

"You're _not_ losing my friendship, Paul," Sam replied emphatically, "You'll _always_ have it. I've always thought that was how the best romances started, don't you agree? Not the ones you see at the pictures, with eyes meeting across a crowded room. But the real ones, the ones that last, they're always built on friendship." Sam released Paul's hands and laid her palms flat against the lapels of his coat. Through the layers of broadcloth and linen, she could feel the gentle rise and fall of Paul's chest as he breathed in and out. "Please, Paul, won't you kiss me?"

His hand rose from his side and covered one of hers. Taking a deep breath, Paul leaned forward and captured Sam's lips with his own. With the boundary crossed, instinct took over. As his arms circled her waist and drew her closer, he felt Sam's own arms reach up and twine themselves about his neck. The exhilaration and headiness of physical reaction would come moments later, with their second kiss, but just in_ this_ moment, with Paul's arms wrapped around Sam and their lips meeting for the first time, he felt simply…safe. As though he had finally come home.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **This website is call "Fan Fiction dot Net." 'Nuff said.

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**Author's Notes: **Every FanFiction couple deserves a happy, fluffy break from their angst and drama. This is it for Sam and Paul.

As always, many thanks to my Beta, GiullietaC, with whom I had an interesting exchange about men and household chores, and who found me a very informative website on the history of fish and chips.

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**June, 1942**

Sam had looked forward to changing the nature of her relationship with Paul for quite some time before it had finally come to pass. She had anticipated a number of problems that might need to be addressed, most of which had yet to materialize. One of the biggest of these imagined difficulties had been how everyone else at the station would react. She had braced herself for a great deal of teasing from the other men, probably of the rib-poking variety for Paul.

In fact, however, no one at the station appeared to be the wiser thus far. To be sure, she assumed as a matter of course that Mr. Foyle knew precisely what was going on. Neither she nor Paul had informed the DCS of the change in their relationship but his powers of observation – in Sam's opinion – rivaled those of Sherlock Holmes. The only other person whom she thought might be starting to catch on was Sergeant Brooke. Just lately, when Sam arrived at the station in the morning, Brookie had begun informing her – with rather more of a twinkle in his eye than necessary – whether Mr. Milner was at work in his office or off pursuing an investigation.

They were developing a routine, most evenings, leaving the station together once Sam had returned the Wolseley for the night. Then they got a bite to eat, lingering over their food when the weather was inclement, meandering about the streets of Hastings when the weather was fine. They went to the pictures once, often twice a week, and dancing on Saturday nights. And yet, that bare-bones description of how Sam and Paul spent their time quite failed to encompass how magical the hours seemed to both of them; how full of quiet pleasure the moments that might have appeared unremarkable or dull to any outsider.

"I'm absolutely famished," Sam announced one evening as they gained the pavement outside the station. Paul smiled. Sam always seemed to be hungry.

"Fancy anything in particular?"

Sam pretended to consider. "A chocolate ice would really hit the spot," she said, allowing herself to imagine for a moment that such a pre-war delicacy could actually be obtained. The June evening was growing quite humid. "Actually," she admitted after a pause, "I've been thinking about fish and chips all afternoon. Do you mind?"

They got their fish and chips and found a public bench where they sat and ate them. Sam finished hers first, then unwrapped the newspaper it had come in. There was an article about the fighting in North Africa. She wondered how much the situation might have changed in the few days between the article's publication and the present time. Goodness knows, even when the newspaper had been hot off the presses, the information was probably already out of date. Sam stole a couple of Paul's remaining chips.

"Hey," he remonstrated in mock indignation, not in the least upset.

"Going to put me on a charge?" she smiled, popping the chips into her mouth.

"Well, given that you've eaten the evidence…" Before either of them could continue their exchange, however, the quality of the light changed noticeably and there was an ominous roll of thunder. They both looked up and saw that dark clouds were gathering, threatening imminent rain.

"Oh bother," Sam glared up at the heavens, "I haven't even got an umbrella. What shall we do now?"

Paul hesitated a moment, studying the sky. "Well…we're not very far from my place. Why don't we have a quiet evening in and I'll lend you an umbrella for the walk home?"

"That sounds lovely," Sam beamed. They hurried off as the blanket of grey clouds overhead began to spit raindrops. The sky let loose in earnest just as Paul opened his front door and ushered them both inside. Sam looked around curiously, wondering in what sort of state she would find the house. The last time Sam had been over, Jane had only been gone for a few months and the effects of her housekeeping had not yet faded completely. Since then, another eighteen months had passed, with Paul fending for himself. Sam had prepared herself to find a bachelor's hovel.

She was pleasantly surprised and suitably impressed to find that this wasn't the case. Her first impression was of a light layer of clutter: books strewn about waiting to be re-shelved, a small pile of discarded post, and, peeking into the kitchen, a few breakfast dishes waiting to be washed. Nothing that would require more than a little desultory tidying.

Then she had let loose an almighty sneeze.

And became aware of the _dust_. It lay thickly on every disused surface in the sitting room, offering mute testimony as to which spot Paul usually sat to read and which end table he used when he did. Sam walked slowly around the room, dabbing at her nose with her handkerchief, marveling at the accumulation of eighteen months' worth of grime. Her mother would have a _fit_ if she saw this. Actually, _any_ housewife would be beside herself over the state of the room.

"It's lucky you're such a good Detective Sergeant, because you'd be rubbish as a housemaid," she called teasingly over her shoulder to the kitchen, where Paul had gone to fetch them both glasses of water.

"I thought I was managing rather well," he protested as he entered the sitting room and placed the glasses on an end table. "What are you doing?" Paul asked, watching as Sam ran her index finger along a dust-dimmed mirror. After a moment, he realized that she was writing in the dust: _DS Paul Milner_.

"It's something my mother did to remind me to tidy my room," Sam replied absently, "She said that people used to do it to show their servants when they weren't up to snuff." Sam stepped back to admire her handiwork and then stopped abruptly, a look of horror dawning over her face. "Oh Lord!" she exclaimed, "I'm turning into my mother!"

"I think I'll be the judge of that." Paul turned on the wireless, sat down on the sofa, and gestured invitingly for Sam to join him. When she sat down he put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into his side. "What is your mother like?" He had met Sam's father ages ago, but her mother was still something of an enigma.

Sam sighed noisily. "Mother's a fusspot. Everything always has to be just so. And a worrier. She's always fretting about something or other." Sam bit her lip, seeming to regret her customary candour, and added, apologetically, "It's very hard, being a vicar's wife. Worse than being a vicar's daughter, even. You have to organize everything, and suffer everyone's complaints, and know that _all _eyes are on you _all _the time. She's really a lovely person and she manages everything very well. But when I was living at home, before the war, you can't imagine how much we got on each other's nerves!"

"Well, she doesn't sound much like you. I've never known you to worry unduly about anything. Apart from me." Paul smiled and Sam gave him a playful dig in his ribs.

"Clearly I need to start worrying about your housekeeping. I'm amazed that you can breathe with all of this dust!"

"I hadn't really noticed it," Paul shrugged.

"I should say not," Sam replied, looking around. "Although you are right, everything else really looks quite nice." She took a few sips of water; fish and chips was a fun thing to eat every so often, but it always left her so thirsty afterwards. "Can I see how the rest of the place is holding up?"

"I beg your pardon?" Now that he was comfortably ensconced on the sofa, with Sam by his side, and a busy day coming to a close, Paul could feel a pleasant lethargy stealing over him. He didn't fancy getting up again for some little while.

But Sam had already stood up and walked into the kitchen. Paul sighed, wondering where Sam's perpetual energy seemed to come from, then heaved himself off of the sofa, and followed her. He leaned against the doorframe, watching Sam walk around the kitchen, peering at the counters, the stove, the sink. She held her hands clasped behind her back, and, in combination with the MTC uniform she was still wearing, looked as though she were conducting an official inspection.

"Do I pass muster?" he asked as she completed her circuit of the room and joined him at the door.

"Oh, quite," Sam replied, "Though you've left rather more crumbs about than you should; it's an invitation to mice when you do that." She brushed past him with a smile and began climbing the stairs.

"What now?" Paul felt a moment's panic that Sam was going to have a peek in his own room to see how thick the dust was in there and whether or not he had made up his bed.

"I want to see the state of your lav," Sam replied over her shoulder. She held her breath when she turned on the light in the lavatory. On balance, Paul was proving more than capable of doing his own housework. However, given the accumulation of dust downstairs, it was entirely possible that Paul's facilities would be the last word in grottiness.

Except that they weren't. The bath, toilet, and sink were all quite adequately clean. The floor needed a good scrubbing, but even that detail couldn't diminish Sam's awed reaction.

"Well you _are_ a wonder," Sam smiled as she made an about-face and headed back down the stairs.

"Am I?" Paul asked as he followed Sam, relieved that she hadn't extended her tour of inspection to his room.

"How do you come to know about cleaning lavs? I'm sure my father wouldn't be able to do anything half as good." They returned to the sitting room and Sam plopped down in the middle of the sofa, slipping off her shoes. Paul sat down next to her and she tucked her legs up on the sofa, leaning cozily against his shoulder.

"Believe it or not, I picked that up back when I was in the army."

"Did you really?"

"When they weren't drilling us on weapons and lecturing us about how to salute superior officers, we were expected to keep our barracks tidy. They inspected the results every day. And made a to-do if they thought we were slacking. But you're just lucky that I happened to give the whole place a scrubbing last week."

"I suppose there wasn't much that would need dusting in barracks."

Paul chuckled. "No sideboards, no shelves, no ornamental mirrors. I can't think how we managed."

"Well," Sam began earnestly, "I think that – apart from the dust – everything looks quite nice. You deserve an enormous amount of credit. And a suitable reward." So saying, Sam turned her head and tilted it invitingly. Paul brought his arm back up around Sam's shoulders and bent his head over hers, their lips meeting in a sweet, gentle kiss. The music on the wireless was dreamy and lazy, and the drum of the pounding rain outside could be heard above it, enhancing the conscious cosiness of being indoors and out of the storm.

One kiss became two, then three. As they kissed, Sam relaxed her lips in anticipation of Paul deepening the kiss, which he did presently. She felt the tip of his tongue push against her lower lip, requesting entrance, and when it had been granted, she allowed her own tongue to dance along his. She could just taste the vinegar that Paul had put on his fish earlier. Sam exhaled softly, happily, as she felt Paul's other hand come up to cradle the back of her head, moving her own free hand to his shoulder.

When they broke the kiss at last, each drawing deep breaths of air, Paul's hand left Sam's hair and trailed down her arm, finding her hand and enclosing it with his own. Even after all these weeks together, Paul still found himself marveling at how natural and easy it felt to be with Sam, their former camaraderie unfolding gently into something deeper alongside their gradually increasing physical intimacy.

Paul's instincts urged him to capture Sam's mouth again, but he wanted to savour this moment as well. If he still felt any anxiety about the new direction his relationship with Sam had taken, it was a concern that if he moved too quickly or indulged himself too deeply in their physical displays of affection that it would somehow mar the exquisite bloom of their maturing relationship. So instead, he brought Sam's hand up to his lips and kissed her palm.

Sam sensed the passion and depth of feeling behind this caress; it thrilled her quite as much as Paul's other kisses had done. When he had finished kissing her hand, Paul turned his attention to tracing the lines of her palm, the veins of her wrist, and the outline of her fingers. Sam admired Paul's own fingers as she enjoyed his exploration of hers. She thought Paul had beautiful fingers, long, dexterous, and gentle. She shivered slightly under their touch, imagining how they would feel, at some indeterminate point in the future, exploring other parts of her body. They both sat quietly for a long time, not saying very much, simply enjoying each other's warm proximity and letting the music from the wireless wash over them.

When their reverie ended, a glance at the clock told them that Sam ought to be getting back to her own place. They disentangled themselves reluctantly and stood up, straightening their clothes and putting themselves to rights. The rain continued to beat down, but it was a warm summer rain, making the air sweet and fresh. Paul walked Sam home under the shelter of an umbrella.

"If this keeps up, everyone ought to have a quiet night," Sam commented as they walked, "Jerry's not likely to venture out on a night like this."

"Let's hope so," Paul replied.

"I had the loveliest time," Sam said as they approached the door of her lodgings, directing a half-shy, half-mischievous smile up at Paul, "I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a quiet, rainy evening in nearly as much." And though she didn't say it, Sam was already looking forward to the next time that they would be able to enjoy another evening like this one.

"I don't think I've ever enjoyed a discussion of housework so much." Paul returned Sam's smile, then leaned forward, kissing her in the shelter of the doorway, triply screened from passers-by by the dark, the rain, and the umbrella. Sam stood on her tip-toes to put her lips in closer proximity to Paul's and grasped both his shoulders to steady herself. One of Paul's hands was occupied with the umbrella, but with the other, he grasped the back of her neck, drawing Sam forward and deepening the kiss. When they finally drew apart, he murmured, "Until tomorrow."

As he turned to begin his walk home, Sam called out a final word from her doorway.

"Mind you give the whole place a good dusting, Paul. The next time I come over, I expect to actually be able to see myself in your sitting room mirror." Sam's eyes sparkled with merriment over some private jest that Paul didn't feel he quite understood, although her meaning became clear when he returned home. In addition to having written his name on the sitting room mirror, Sam had left other messages scrawled on the dusty surfaces of the sitting room, including "_Dust Me_," "_Help_," and "_Atchoo!_" Paul remembered going upstairs to use the facilities just before walking Sam home; she must have written these messages during those few minutes before he had returned.

Paul stood surveying all of the cheerful imprints that Sam had left in his dusty sitting room, feeling himself in a quandary. He was loath to erase any of them, but quite apart from the fact that he really should get rid of all this unhygienic dust, whenever Sam came over next, she would be expecting to find that he had obeyed her instructions and tidied up.

After standing about uncertainly for a few minutes, a flash of inspiration came to Paul. He rifled through the inner pockets of his jacket, extracted the note book that he always carried, and found a clean page. With the same meticulous care that he would use on a crime scene, Paul made a slow circuit of his sitting room, copying each of Sam's messages, with an accompanying note regarding which piece of furniture it had graced. Then he hunted out a dry rag from the kitchen scullery and did his best to set the sitting room to rights. He had sneezed three times by the time the job was done and he conceded that – as usual – Sam had the right of it.

But there was one more surprise left in store for him. When he went upstairs to begin preparing for bed, an unusual gleam caught his eye when he opened the door and the light from the hallway struck the mirror above his dresser. He turned on the light in his room and examined the mirror more closely. It was as dusty as the one in the sitting room had been. And Sam had written him one final message: _Sweet Dreams_.

He stood staring at the words Sam had written in the dust. She had also come upstairs to freshen up before they left; she must have sneaked in here then. Paul glanced nervously around the room, relieved to see that the bed was made and that he hadn't left any dirty laundry lying about. He looked back at the mirror and felt an idiotic grin stretching across his face. It was like a kind of magic spell that Sam had cast, making him feel her presence, and her warmth, and her care for him even though she wasn't present in the flesh. She was a sweet dream incarnate. He pulled out his notebook again and added a new entry to his list.

But he left the mirror, and the dust, and Sam's message intact.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **And we're back to canon (and all its accompanying angst), which belongs to Anthony Horowitz rather than yours truly. Just in case you were wondering.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I actually found it quite interesting to learn about anthrax as I was working on this chapter. For starters, the name "anthrax" comes from the Greek word for coal, due to the black sores that form on the skin of those with cutaneous anthrax infections (as prominently featured in the episode "Bad Blood"). I was very excited by this bit of information, because I had been wondering for well over a decade what the connection might be between anthracite (another name for coal) and the disease known as anthrax.

Plus, among the older, historical names for anthrax is "woolsorter's disease" which is one of the illnesses mentioned by Dr. Brindley in the episode itself, when he is brainstorming about Elsie's cause of death. So, even though he was feeling his way in the dark, he totally had the right idea about what was going on.

Now, about Dr. Brindley. He is an official, named character taken from "Bad Blood." I didn't know his name just from viewing the episode, but I got it from the full cast list on IMDB. He is not related to the delightful character of Dr. Grindley who keeps popping up in the stories of my awesome Beta, GiulliettaC, with whom I've already discussed this interesting coincidence.

* * *

_**August, 1942**_

"It's like something out of the Wild West!" Sergeant Brooke crowed with delight, as he showed the report to Mr. Milner and DCS Foyle. Plucking the paper from the Sergeant's hands, Paul glanced at its contents and passed it to Mr. Foyle: six cows reported stolen from Vauxhall Farm. Studying his superior's face as he scanned the report, Paul fancied that Mr. Foyle's reaction mirrored his own: that this was one of the more fortuitous – albeit bizarre – developments that he had ever experienced while working on a case.

The case in question had arrived at the station early the previous morning in the guise of Edith Ashford, one of Paul's old friends from school. He hadn't seen her in at least ten years, though he remembered her fondly. She had sought him out after all this time for a very specific reason: her younger brother, Martin, had been arrested on a murder charge. Edith was adamant in her conviction that her brother was innocent, despite both the evidence and Martin's refusal to speak in his defence, and begged both Paul and Mr. Foyle to look into the matter. The DCS had eventually agreed to see what could be done, despite the fact that the case was further up the coast in Hythe, and out of their jurisdiction.

Sam had driven them both to Hythe that same day, and Mr. Foyle had spoken with DCS Fielding, who ran the station. They had been allowed to see and question Martin Ashford, but Paul's efforts to establish any kind of rapport with the young man had fallen completely flat. Mr. Foyle had had a bit more success, though of the negative kind. When he had suggested that Martin was protecting someone, the young man had shut down even further, suggesting that a nerve had been hit. The whole interview had raised more questions than it had answered.

The same could be said of Paul's second interview with Edith. Upon their return from Hythe, he had gone to St. Mary's Hospital, where she worked as a nurse, and spoke to her there. When he had asked if Martin might be protecting anyone, her face had clouded over. Questioned as to whether Martin was involved with anyone, Edith had shaken her head, suddenly very interested in smoothing her apron and avoiding his eyes. He hadn't pressed her very hard, though he wondered what Edith was hiding and whether or not she realized what a poor liar she was. At the end of the interview she had invited him to get some tea and catch up.

"That would be nice," Paul had replied, thinking that it would be quite pleasant to swap stories about what had happened to everyone they had known at school in the intervening years, "But I already have plans." He knew that Sam was waiting for him back at the station.

...

The next morning, Paul went over Martin Ashford's file with Mr. Foyle. The murder victim was a recently decorated sailor named Tom Jenkins, who had left behind a wife named Elsie and an eighteen month old son. Martin and Tom had argued violently at a pub, then – passions still riding high – had arranged an assignation later on the beach to settle their differences. Martin was seen heading for the beach carrying something long and thin, and then later observed running away from the scene. Jenkins had been stabbed, and his blood was found on Martin's clothes. The murder weapon had been found near Vauxhall farm, where Martin lived and worked. The more Paul looked at the information in the file, the more he appreciated DCS Fielding's initial displeasure at their appearance the day before. There was nothing sloppy or slapdash about the work out of the Hythe station and the evidence seemed very cut and dried.

After dismissing Sergeant Brooke, Mr. Foyle collected Sam and left to see what Martin Ashford's former employer had to say about the murder and the missing cattle.

...

When he returned to the station in the early afternoon, Mr. Foyle reported that the farmer had had considerably more to say about his missing cows than about the murder, despite the fact that Tom had been his own son-in-law. An odd pattern was emerging. Everyone was adamant in their belief that Martin couldn't have killed Tom. And they seemed to have nothing to say about Tom, one way or the other. That Edith should adopt this attitude was not particularly surprising, but even Tom's widow Elsie, whom Mr. Foyle had called upon before returning to the station, had the same conviction in Martin's innocence and the same tendency to damn Tom with extremely faint praise.

...

It was nearly the end of the day; Mr. Foyle had called Paul into his office for a few minutes to show him the murder weapon used on Tom Jenkins. DCS Fielding had called and left it with them to puzzle over. It looked somewhat like a sharp screwdriver; it had been identified by the Hythe MO as a veterinary tool called a trochar. Fielding also reported that a young man – the son of the local vet – had come to the Hythe station, offering his two pennies' worth to the effect that Martin couldn't have killed anyone. But nothing more concrete than that.

Mr. Foyle had gathered his things in preparation for the journey home and both men were lingering momentarily in the hallway when Sam came upon the scene.

"Are you alright?" Mr. Foyle asked in concern, though the question hardly needed asking. Sam looked pale, clammy, and uncomfortable, moving somewhat stiffly as though she ached all over.

"No, I'm not," she admitted to Mr. Foyle, then addressed Paul, "Paul, I'm going to have to stand you up. I feel rotten; I think I've got flu."

If any other sign were needed that Sam was not entirely herself, it was the fact that she had mentioned their having plans in front of Mr. Foyle. The new direction their relationship had taken wasn't precisely a secret – they were hardly sneaking around Hastings when they went out and about nearly every night – but they had a tacit agreement about not mentioning their outings at the station, not drawing attention to themselves or how they had been spending their time.

"Would you like me to see you home?" Paul ventured, uncomfortably aware of Mr. Foyle's scrutinizing gaze and deciding that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

"That's alright," Sam replied, "I'll drive Mr. Foyle home then I'll drive myself.

"You alright to drive?" Mr. Foyle queried.

"Absolutely." Sam seemed to rally with her affirmation; she sounded almost well for a moment.

"Well then drive yourself home and go to bed," the DCS ordered gently, "I'll walk."

"Are you sure, Sir?" Sam's relief and appreciation were palpable.

"Of course."

"I'm sorry, Paul," Sam repeated, her eyes apologetic, managing to convey that she had realized her blunder.

"Don't trouble yourself, Sam," he reassured her, patting her arm, "I'll see you soon." The two men stood, watching as Sam walked down the hall and out of the station. Then Mr. Foyle turned and looked at Paul.

"Why don't we take a walk, Milner?" the DCS suggested levelly.

"Of course, Sir." Paul recognized an order when he heard one. They left the station together and began walking in silence.

"What were your plans? You and Sam?" Mr. Foyle asked at last.

"We were going to go to the pictures. There's a new spy thriller that Sam's been keen to see. She likes to try to unravel the mystery before the people in the picture do."

"Does she ever manage it?" Christopher Foyle smiled despite himself, imagining Sam's face, squinting up at the screen, mental gears working furiously.

"Actually, Sir, she does, about half the time." Paul allowed himself to smile as well, with fond pride, though he knew better than to let himself relax. His interrogation was far from over.

"You and Sam have been…seeing each other?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How long?"

"About…" Paul calculated in his head quickly, "Four months now."

"That long?" Foyle chewed on the inside of his lower lip as he digested this information. He had only begun to suspect that Sam and Milner might be romantically involved for the past month and a half. Their behaviour at work had been irreproachable, but he had nevertheless detected a perceptible change in their interactions with each other; there was a warmth and an intimacy that went beyond the friendship he knew had already existed between them. Clearly they were both considerably more discreet than he had given them credit for. "I heard that you and Jane got a divorce?"

Paul didn't ask where the DCS had had his information. Ultimately, he knew the source would have been Sergeant Brooke. In the wake of his conversation with Sam in the Wolseley and their decision to become more than friends, Paul had decided to put it about that he and Jane had already divorced. He was determined, insofar as he was able, to protect Sam and her reputation. Paul had bided his time and watched for his opportunity, which had materialized a few weeks after his first date with Sam. Sergeant Brooke was friendly and chatty, and Paul usually spent a few minutes every morning passing the time of day with him. One morning, Brookie had been exulting over a date he'd gone on the previous evening.

"I heard from one of the lads that you're married, Mr. Milner," he'd smiled. And Paul had seen his opportunity.

"Yes, I was," he had replied as nonchalantly as he could manage, "But we got divorced." And Paul had known that he would be the subject of clandestine gossip around the station for the rest of the week. But whenever his new relationship with Sam came to light, she would still enjoy everyone's good opinion. And that was all that mattered.

"Yes, Sir, we did." Paul could feel himself redden as the words had left his mouth. It was one thing to lie to Sergeant Brooke, whom Paul didn't know very well, but it was quite another kettle of fish to do so to Mr. Foyle. It helped that they were both still walking, that it was natural for his eyes to be focused on the pavement in front of him. It would have been impossible for Paul to tell Mr. Foyle such a bald-faced lie if he had had to meet his superior's eyes. As things were, he was astonished as one moment bled into the next, and nothing happened. He hadn't expected to be struck down by lightning, but he had been working with Mr. Foyle for long enough to know that the DCS was not an easy man to fool. He had expected to be called to account immediately and glaciated by the full force of Mr. Foyle's icy contempt.

"I was sorry to hear it," was all that Mr. Foyle said.

"Some things can't be helped, Sir," Paul shrugged.

"Do Sam's parents know about the two of you?

"I know that Sam writes to them every week. I don't know what she's told them." Paul could hear the prevarication behind his words and winced inwardly, wondering what Mr. Foyle must be thinking.

Christopher Foyle glanced sideways at his Sergeant. He wasn't Sam's father, or Milner's either if it came to that. Any right that he might have had to interfere in Sam's personal life had ended when Andrew had broken things off between them. He could even understand if Sam were reluctant to be completely forthcoming with her parents about any budding romance between herself and Milner. No Anglican vicar would approve of his daughter becoming involved with a divorced man, although Foyle's private view was that the Stewarts would approve of and appreciate Milner for himself under other circumstances. Perhaps that made it all the more important for him to say something now, despite the tenuousness of his authority in this matter.

"I hope I can rely on you to treat Sam with the consideration that she deserves."

Paul stopped walking, turned, and looked Mr. Foyle straight in the eye. "I would never let any harm come to Sam, Sir."

After a moment, during which it looked as though the DCS were chewing on the inside of his cheek, he gave a small nod and said, "Rrright. Good. See that you don't." Mr. Foyle turned the conversation after that. A few minutes later, they arrived at his home and the two men parted ways for the evening.

...

Sam called in sick the following morning, and Sergeant Brooke, who had taken the call, said that she sounded very under the weather. Brooke acted as Mr. Foyle's driver that day, a change of pace that he seemed to enjoy. Several times throughout the day, Paul found himself reaching for the phone to call and see how Sam was getting on, but each time he stopped himself, not wanting to disturb her rest. She would be back at work in a day or so, he told himself. But it felt odd, going the whole day without either seeing her in person or hearing her voice.

Sam was still out the next morning, but another odd wrinkle had turned up in the Ashford case. Someone had left an anonymous letter for Mr. Foyle, claiming to have seen the murder of Tom Jenkins and describing the killer as a tall man with blond hair – the antithesis of Martin Ashford. The paper smelled distinctly of ether, and Mr. Foyle dispatched Paul to St. Mary's Hospital to see what Edith had to say about it – and asking him to look in on Sam while he was out and about.

Edith denied sending the letter, becoming indignant at Paul's insinuation that she might have sent it in order to misdirect the investigation.

"Edie, why don't you tell me the truth?" Paul's patience with his old school friend was beginning to fray.

"I have!" she exclaimed, thinking he was still referring to the letter.

"No you haven't," Paul persisted, "I asked you if Martin was involved with anyone and you said he wasn't."

"Are you calling me a liar?" She sounded deeply offended. The circumstances, however, were too serious for Paul to indulge in any polite prevarication.

"Yes, I am. I could tell, Edie. People lie to me all the time; it's part of my job." It never ceased to amaze Paul, not that people lied to the police, but that they were always so surprised to be found out. He sometimes felt quite indignant with the general view of the public towards the average police officer as someone stolid and reliable, but also easily hoodwinked. Paul had usually found that the opposite was true. No matter what their rank or education, the quality that all experienced members of the police shared was an ability to read people accurately and to know truth from fiction when they heard it.

"You've changed." Edith frowned, her eyes accusing and hurt. Paul exhaled in frustration; what was that supposed to mean? What had Edith expected when she approached him in the first place? That he would pull a few strings, speak a few words in the ears of the right people, and Martin would be magically exonerated? Evidence couldn't simply be ignored.

"You came to me for help," Paul replied as patiently as he could manage, "But you also used me. Was Elsie Jenkins having an affair with your brother?"

"No."

But Paul ignored Edith's denial. The description in the report, the way that Tom and Martin's argument had ignited and then escalated spoke of far more than a few too many drinks. It suggested some other enmity, and a rivalry centered around Elsie Jenkins was the most obvious. Paul was sure that, if Martin had been involved with anyone other than Elsie, Edith would have mentioned it long ago. Shamefaced, Edith admitted that Paul was right; Martin had become involved with Elsie while Tom was away at sea.

"Did you write this?" he asked once more, indicating the letter.

"No. I promise you." Paul looked at her searchingly. This time, he believed her.

"That's all I need to know," he said, and realized immediately that he still needed to know a great deal more, beginning with Elsie's own account of what had happened. When he mentioned this to Edith, however, she informed him that Elsie had been admitted to St. Mary's the previous evening, acutely ill, and had died that morning. Paul placed a call to the station to inform Mr. Foyle of this development in addition to Edith's confirmation of Martin's affair with Elsie. Then he went in search of Elsie's doctor.

Dr. Brindley had little to add to Edith's account of Elsie's death. She had presented with a high fever, respiratory distress, and odd black sores on her arms and face. She had died rambling incoherently about a dead sheep. The doctor confessed himself utterly mystified as to cause of death, casting about the names of possible ailments that meant little or nothing to Paul, including something rather arcane-sounding called "woolsorter's disease."

...

As the police car pulled away from the hospital, Paul remembered that Mr. Foyle had asked him to look in on Sam and see how she was getting on; he directed the constable acting as his driver to her address. It felt rather odd to be knocking on Sam's door in the middle of the day, almost as though he were skiving off of work or intruding on her privacy somehow.

The door opened almost at once, and Paul's thoughts scattered to the four winds. Sam had opened the door. She was fully dressed, as though she intended to go out somewhere, but he could see immediately how ill she looked; her face was simultaneously ashy and too flushed, her eyes glassy and bright with fever. Her hair was a mess of loose, uncombed curls.

"Oh, Paul," she gasped, grabbing his forearms to steady herself, relief flooding her face and voice, "I'm so…glad you're here. I was just going… I think I need to see a doctor…" The words had barely left her lips when her knees buckled and her body went suddenly limp, knocking Paul back into the doorframe as he struggled to continue supporting Sam's dead weight.

It was when he shifted Sam's body, bellowing for assistance from the constable in the car, that the sleeve of Sam's cardigan pulled up and Paul saw the black sores on her forearms. And panic became terror.


End file.
